THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE 


POEMS 

or 

J.  O.  T. 

CONSISTING  OP 

SONGS,  SATIRE  AND  PASTORAL 

DESCRIPTIONS1, 

CHIEFLY  DEPICTING  THE  SCENERY,  AND   ILLUSTRATING  THK 

MANNERS    AND    CUSTOMS    OF    THE   ANCIENT   AND 

PRESENT  INHABITANTS  OF  LONG-ISLAND. 


NEW-YORK : 

GEORGE  F.  NESBITT,  PRINTER, 

Corner  Wall  and  Water  Streets. 

1850. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1S50,  by 

J.     0.     TERRY, 

in  the  Office  of  the  Clerk  of  the  United  States  District  Court 
for  the  Southern  District  of  New- York. 


DEDICATION.    •7* 

/ 

To  THADDEUS  B.  GLOVER,  ESQ. 

SIR  : — The  high  in  station,  and  the  rich,  may  smile  at 
the  selection  made  in  this  dedication ;  it  has  been  too  much 
the  custom  for  obsequious  authors,  to  elevate  to  unde- 
,  served  notoriety  the  titled  and  the  wealthy.  I  have, 
therefore,  in  associating  your  name  with  this  perform- 
ance, taken  the  liberty  to  deviate  from  this  practice,  by 
substituting  true  merit  for  factitious  eminence.  The 
lofty  qualities,  and  generous  sentiments  which  adorn 
your  character,  constitute  the  only  true  nobility,  and  the 
only  one  that  ought  to  be  the  pride  of  an  American 
citizen. 

That  you  may  ever  meet  with  the  good  fortune  you  de- 
serve, is  the  ardent  wish  and  prayer  of  your  friend, 

THE  AUTHOR. 


PREFACE. 


WHEN  an  unknown  individual  presumes  to  become 
an  author,  the  public  unjustly  expect  something  very  ex- 
traordinary from  his  pen,  to  balance  the  account  of  his 
obscurity ;  he  therefore  sees  before  him  the  unreasonable 
disappointment  of  unwarranted  hopes  and  defeated  expec- 
tations. He  also  labors  under  the  double  disadvantage  of 
being  considered  a  pretender  in  Authorship,  and  a  cox- 
comb in  Literature.  Aware  of  these  facts,  the  subscriber 
has  long  deferred  the  publication  of  his  book ;  but  the 
earnest  solicitations  of  his  friends,  and  the  uncertainty  of 
human  life,  have  induced  him  at  last  to  surrender  his 
opposition  to  their  wishes. 

He  does  not  anticipate  either  fame  or  immortality  from 
his  verses ;  but  it  has  been  the  leading  motive  of  his  life, 
that  he  might  be  able  to  produce  some  moral  or  sentiment, 
or  discover  some  beauty  or  truth  that  might  embalm  his 
memory  in  the  hearts  of  his  countrymen.  Wishing  liberty 
and  happiness  to  the  land  of  his  birth,  and  to  all  men,  he 
with  great  diffidence  begs  the  perusal  and  indulgence  Of 
his  fellow-citizens. 

JOHN  ORVILLE  TERRY. 


r 


THE    POEMS 


JOHN    OEVILLE    TERRY. 


SONGS. 


PEACE  OF   MIND. 

COME  peace  of  mind,  thou  angel  guest, 
Within  this  bosom  build  thy  nest — 

O  !  thou  art  welcome  here ; 
Full  many  a  long  and  darksome  mile 
I  wandered  ere  I  met  thy  smile, 

Through  many  a  gloomy  year. 

Oft,  when  the  sky  was  overcast, 
I  said — "  and  shall  we  meet  at  last, 

Where  skies  are  bright  and  clear ; 
And  far  remote  from  human  woes, 
Lie  pillowed  in  sweet  repose — 

No  sorrow  lurking  near  1" 


I've  sailed  life's  troubled  waters  o'er, 
But  since  I've  found  a  peaceful  shore 

And  a  companion  dear, 
I'll  sail  no  more  it's  stormy  sea, 
But  end  my  life  all  tranquilly, 

And  banish  every  fear. 

I'll  tread  no  more  a  thorny  road, 
But  seek  a  downy,  blest  abode, 

Within  a  humble  sphere ; 
Come,  peace  of  mind,  and  be  my  guest, 
In  this  lone  bosom  build  thy  nest — 

For  thou  art  welcome  here. 


THE   HAPPY  MAN. 

WHERE  lives  the  man  supremely  blest, 
Whose  conscience  and  whose  mind  at  rest, 

Makes  life  a  round 
Of  pleasure,  cheerfulness  and  joy — 
Whose  waking  hours  know  no  alloy — 

Who  sleeps  profound. 

"Pis  not  in  palaces  I  ween 
This  child  of  happiness  is  seen — 

Nor  splendor's  car ; 
Nor  is  it  on  the  gorgeous  throne 
Where  power  sits  trembling  and  alone, 

A  dazzling  star. 


SONGS. 

Nor  yet  amid  the  flowery  band, 

That  wealth  supplies  with  bounteous  hand ; 

For  what  are  they 
Who  flutter  in  the  golden  sea 
And  sunshine  of  prosperity  1 

But  gilded  clay. 

Nor  is  it  in  the  gaudy  train 
Of  wanton  pleasure,  he  is  fain 

To  pass  his  hours ; 
He  knows  remorse  a  dismal  fiend, 
Doth  on  her  midnight  steps  attend, 

And  steals  her  flowers. 

Nor  is  it  in  the  knightly  ring, 

He  stands  a  stiff  and  courtly  thing, 

Ready  to  fall 

A  prostrate  victim  to  the  nod 
Of  proud  ambition,  and  his  God 

Defy,  and  all. 

Nor  is  it  in  the  stately  throng 
Where  senates  their  huzzas  prolong 

With  loud  acclaim, 
To  hear  some  wordy  veteran 
Tear  and  traduce  his  fellow  man — 

We  find  his  name. 

But  all  unknown  and  unadmired, 
He  lives  within  an  old,  retired, 

Thatched  cottage,  low ; 
Sequestered  there,  he  lives  obscure, 
Alone,  all  passionless  and  pure ; — 

Fre  seen,  and  know. 


10 


CONTENTMENT. 


THERE'S  many  a  good  fellow,  kind-hearted  and  hale,  O, 
Who  lives  in  a  cottage  as  humble  as  mine, 
Contented  with  little,  his  rags  and  his  victual, — 
For  the  wealth  of  the  great,  you'll  ne'er  hear  him  repine, 

There's  he  with  the  shilling,  who's  never  unwilling 
To  part  with  his  all  to  a  friend  in  distress ; 
The  prince  and  his  pageant,  with  millions  his  agent, 
Has  not  more  than  he  the  sweet  pleasure  to  bless. 

The  gold-grasping  miser  is  never  the  wiser, 
For  all  his  possessions — he'd  better  have  none ; 
For  the  cares  and  the  crosses,  vexations  and  losses 
Of  wealth,  its  possession  can  never  atone. 

The  man  to  his  daily  employment  goes  gayly, 
Whose  children  enjoy  the  fruits  of  his  toil ; 
If  lowly  his  station,  the  small  compensation 
Is  met  at  his  door,  with  a  greeting  and  smile. 

My  cot,  be  it  lowly,  belongs  to  me  solely — 
The  orchard  behind  it,  the  garden  before, 
The  acre  around  it,  the  flowers  that  bound  it 
Are  mine,  and  mine  only  ; — I  wish  for  no  more. 


FIRST    LOVE. 

How  beautiful  the  past  apptai>. 
The  fairy  scenes  of  bygone  years- 


11 


The  happy  smiles  and  joyful  tear?, — 
The  loves,  and  hopes,  and  e'en  the  fears ; 
They  hring  that  blissful  day  to  me, 
When  first  I  met  and  loved  thee, 
I  thought  it  heaven  ! — and  thy  divine . 
Image  an  angel's,  Caroline. 

A  world  of  bliss  I  then  beheld — 
My  fancy  flew,  my  reason  reeled— 
I  revelled  in  thy  beauty's  blaze, 
Content  to  wonder  and  to  gaze  j 
One  thought  alone  my  mind  possessed, 
And  one  deep  feeling  swayed  my  breast ; 
It  was  to  bow  before  thy  shrine, 
And  to  adore  thee — Caroline. 

How  often  have  I  sought  the  wood, 
And  there  in  lonely  solitude, 
Told  to  the  singing  birds  the  flame 
liaised  by  the  elysium  of  thy  name. 
As  I  repeated  it  around, 
They  seemed  enamored  of  the  sound, 
And  mingled  their  complaints  with  mine, 
'Twas  Caroline,  sweet  Caroline. 

Those  days  have  passed  away,  but  still 
That  name  will,  make  my  bosom  thrill ; 
Th'  impression  on  my  heart  remains, 
And  day  by  day  the  deeper  gains  ; 
Some  deep  enchantment  love  hath  wound, 
And  to  thine  own  my  heart-strings  bound  ; 
Whate  e'r  my  fate  'tis  linked  to  thine, 
My  Caroline,  dear  Caroline. 


12  SONGS. 

THE  QUID  OF  TOBACCO. 
(Song  by  a  Sailor.) 

WHEN  nature  is  rife,  with  tempestuous  strife, 
That  comes  like  a  thief  through  each  crack-O, 

How  pleasant  to  sit,  and  regale  upon  wit, 
And  a  sweet  scented  quid  of  tobacco. 

When  morning  awakes  from  her  sleep,  and  forsakes 
Her  couch,  which  the  night  made  so  blaok-O, 

What  joy  'tis  to  feel,  each  pocket  reveal 
To  the  touch,  a  soft  quid  of  tobacco. 

When  fortune  doth  frown,  I  sit  myself  down, 
And  contentedly  toss  off  my  sack-O, 

The  ills  we  can't  cure,  we  must  learn  to  endure 
With  a  laugh,  and  a  quid  of  tobacco. 

My  wife  she  is  fair,  beyond  thought  or  compare, 

But  sometimes  she  rattles  her  clack-O, 

It  is  then  I  straightway,  her  blarney  belay 

With  a  twist  of  my  pig-tail  tobacco. 

Men  may  swelter  and  broil,  and  labor  and  toil, 

And  call  me  a  lazy  old  slack-O, 
I  care  not  a  whit,  while  I  loll  and  I  spit 

The  sweet  juice  of  my  quid  of  tobacco. 

Let  the  lovers  of  fame,  or  of  money — their  aim 

Pursue  on  life's  slippery  track-O, 
With  the  care  goaded  crew,  I'll  have  nothing  to  clo 

But  find  both,  in  my  quid  of  tobacco. 


13 


For  place  or  for  pelf,  each  pitiful  elf 

His  brains  or  his  bones  he  may  rack-O, 
I  care  not  a  fig,  for  loco  or  whig, 

While  my  cheek  holds  a  quid  of  tobacco . 

O !  what  horrors  and  woe  I  feel  here  below, 
When  my  pockets  all  weedless  I  shake-O, 

I  had  rather  be  whipped,  hanged,  beheaded,  or  shipped, 
Than  deprived  of  my  quid  of  tobacco. 

And  when  death  shall  appear  with  his  pall  and  his  bier, 

I  tell  him  quite  happy,  here's  Jack-O  ; 
Then  I'll  take  my  last  chew  and  go  off  in  a  whew, 

With  my  last  poor  quid  of  tobacco. 


THE   MOTHER. 

How  calmly  and  serene  they  die, 
Who  have  performed  their  duty  here, 

How  beautiful  their  evening  sky, 
And  to  fond  memory  how  dear. 

Like  suns  that  o'er  a  world  of  green, 
Send  their  departing  peaceful  rays, 

So  gilding  each  domestic  scene 
With  blessings — thus  they  end  their  days. 

Their  lives  present  a  moral  page, 
Without  a  blot,  without  a  stain, 

From  youth  to  all-devouring  age, 
We  read,  and  read  it  o'er  again. 
2 


14 


How  sweet  the  pleasure  that  recalls 

Acquaintance  that  have  done  so  well, 
That  fancies  them  within  the  halls 

Of  peace,  where  once  they  loved  to  dwell. 

A  mother,  whose  engraven  deeds 
Of  love,  and  sympathy,  and  care, 

Brighten  the  heart  as  time  recedes, 
And  sanctify  the  memories  there. 

A  mother,  who  when  grief,  and  woe, 
And  sickness  came,  and  fell  alarm, 

With  tender  words  could  always  throw 
Over  the  mind  a  tranquil  charm. 

A  mother,  when  a  cloud  came  o'er 
The  sunshine  of  each  friendly  eye, 

When  all  the  world  an  aspect  wore, 
Of  stern  and  deep  hostility, 

Her  sweet  divinity  of  love, 

The  inspiration  of  her  smile, 
All  apprehension  could  remove, 

All  tears  and  sorrow  could  beguile. 

And  such  was  ours,  mild  as  the  beams 

Reposing  on  the  moonlit  air, 
So  on  her  dying  couch  she  seems 

Still  lifting  up  her  eyes  in  prayer. 


15 


OH,  Babylon  !  oh,  Babylon ! 
The  glorious  city  of  the  sun, 

The  wonder  of  the  past ! 
The  splendor  of  thy  name  alone, 
Is  left  of  all  the  world  has  known, 

Thy  city  great  and  vast. 

Thy  hanging  gardens,  and  thy  walls, 
Thy  fountains,  and  thy  waterfalls, 

Pillar,  and  palisade ; 
Sunk  in  oblivion's  shoreless  sea, 
Is  all  their  fame  and  history 

Who  their  foundations  laid. 

Where  Belus  reigned,  and  Babel  stood, 
The  centre  of  a  world  subdued, 

Thy  solitary  stone, 
A  sad  memento  of  the  past, 
Stands  bowed  amid  the  dreary  waste, 

With  mosses  overgrown. 

Thy  walls  that  stood  defying  time, 
In  proud  magnificence  sublime, 

Around  their  site  are  hurled  ; 
How  melancholy  'tis  to  know 
A  few  short  ages  bring  so  low, 

A  wonder  of  the  world. 

The  fairest  city  time  can  boast, 
The  most  stupendous,  and  the  most 
Enriched  by  wealth  and  toil, 


16  SONGS. 


That  did  in  glory's  light  excel ; 
Where  is  it  1  let  thy  waters  tell, 
Euphrates  or  the  Nile. 

It  shines  no  more,  no  longer  shine 
Its  honors  earthly  or  divine, 

Time  hath  his  vict'ry  won  ; 
Dire  desolation  treads  the  ground, 
And  fell  destruction  stalks  around, 

O'er  fallen  Babylon. 


MY  FATHER'S  COTTAGE. 

I  SAW  my  father's  cottage  door, 
A  little  distance  from  the  shore, 
As  I  laid  down  my  dripping  oar, 

Just  at  the  twilight  gloaming  ; 
How  beautiful  the  trees  arose, 
Over  that  scene  of  sweet  repose, 
Where  first  my  childhood  plucked  the  rose, 

When  I  returned  from  roaming. 

It  stood  upon  a  meadow  green, 
All  unambitious  to  be  seen, 
That  cottage  old,  gray  and  serene, 

Its  owner's  meekness  proving ; 
No  ostentation  there  betrayed, 
That  pride  had  e'er  an  inroad  made, 
In  that  bird-singing,  haunted  shade, 

When  I  returned  from  roving. 


17 


Alone,  half-hidden  from  the  road, 

A  stream  of  fragrance  round  it  flowed, 

My  aged  parent's  sweet  abode, 

Moss-covered,  unpretending ; 
Altho'  so  poor,  retired  and  old, 
A  heart  beat  in  its  ample  fold, 
Richer  than  mines  of  precious  gold, 

The  humble  poor  befriending. 

How-  beautiful  the  parting  ray, 
Of  the  descending  orb  of  day, 
Shone  on  its  rustic  roof  of  gray, 

Gilding  the  trees  around  it ; 
Just  as  I  left  it,  old  and  rude, 
With  anguished  eyes,  with  tears  subdued, 
In  all  its  blissful  solitude, 

Again  returned — 1  found  it. 

I  blest  it  in  my  youthful  heart, 
So  free  from  ornament  and  art, 
For  well  I  knew  its  counterpart 

Lived  in  the  happy  dwelling ; 
That  modest  worth  and  sweet  content, 
Adorned  that  lowly  tenement, 
And  round  its  sacred  precincts  blent, 

The  hues  of  human  feeling. 


18 


VIRTUOUS   OLD   AGE. 

WEARY  with  life's  incessant  toil, 

Tired  nature  seeks  repose ; 
The  flowers  that  grow  upon  the  soil, 
That  cheered  its  labor  and  turmoil, 

The  violet  and  the  rose, 
Shall  cease  to  charm  when  age  comes  on. 
And  sight  grows  dim,  and  strength  is  gone. 

When  strong  ambition  fails  to  move 

The  lever  of  the  soul, 
And  all  the  springs  of  joy  and  love 
So  faintly  vibrate,  as  to  prove 

Life's  burthen  near  its  goal, 
The  sufferer  with  a  cheerful  face, 
Serenely  seeks  his  resting  place. 

Why  should  the  pilgrim  of  the  earth, 
Whose  drink  has  been  his  tears, 

Whose  food  but  misery  from  his  birth, 

And  all  unknown  his  humble  worth, 
Seek  to  prolong  his  years  ; 

Or  view  with  sadness  or  dismay, 

Life's  taper's  last  expiring  ray. 

He  that  in  virtue's  path  has  trod, 

To  others  shone  the  way, 
If  through  his  life  he  bore  a  load, 
Upon  the  dark  and  cheerless  road 

Of  sorrow,  surely  may 
Look  calmly  for  his  sun  to  set, 
Without  reluctance  or  regret. 


SONGS.  19 

Death  has  no  terrors  for  the  just, 

Benevolent,  and  wise  ; 
He  claims  his  kindred  to  the  dust, 
Whose  immortality  in  trust, 

Is  kept  above  the  skies  ', 
Why  should  he  fear  to  meet  the  day. 
That  rids  him  of  his  load  of  clay. 

The  step  may  falter,  and  the  face 

Grow  wrinkled  with  decay, 
Look  back,  thou  faultless  man,  and  traco 
Thy  duty  filled  in  every  space  ; 

Then  forward  and  be  gay — 
For  hope  is  thine,  and  thou  art  blest, 
And  righteous  Heaven  will  do  the  rest. 


THE   ISLE   OF   SLAVES. 

I'VE  seen  a  land  my  soul  invite, 

'Twas  so  divinely  fair, 
Its  face  so  green,  it  seemed  that  light 
Had  been  enamored  at  the  sight, 

And  chose  its  dwelling  there. 

With  joy  I  saw  those  lovely  vales 

Upon  the  waters  lay, 
But  gently  blew  the  loaded  gales, 
Fragrance  and  odor  filled  the  sails, 

And  wafted  us  away. 

Our  ship  must  leave  that  emerald  land 
That  shone  like  Eden's  shore, 


20  SONGS. 

The  waving  trees  that  kissed  the  strand, 
The  singing  birds,  the  temples  grand, 
To  see,  to  see  no  more. 

Why  should  that  gallant  vessel  pass, 

Upon  those  chrystal  waves, 
A  land  so  lovely,  it  might  class 
With  isles  where  angels  dwell — alas  ! 
It  was  a  land  of  slaves. 

But  many  a  sigh  was  left  behind, 

Upon  the  scented  sea, 
For  Heaven  directed  gales  to  find, 
To  waft  unto  the  fettered  mind 

The  spirit  of  the  free. 


HOMEWARD   BOUND. 

I'VE  been  roaming  o'er  the  foaming 

Ocean,  seeking  pleasures  vain, 
Now  returning,  I  am  burning 

To  embrace  my  friends  again  ; 
Safely  landed,  closely  banded, 

How  delighted  J  shall  rove, 
By  the  ledges,  and  the  hedges, 

With  the  pledges  of  my  love. 

Where  the  glistening  birds  are  listening 
To  the  babbling  of  the  stream, 

I  will  wander,  willows  under, 
O'er  my  youthful  days  to  dream ; 


21 


In  the  morass,  where  the  chorus, 
Of  the  blackbird  greets  the  air, 

I  will  lay  me,  should  he  play  me 
His  sweet  antidote  to  care. 

And  the  heathy  hills,  and  wreathy 

Mountains,  I  will  clamber  o'er, 
Long  I've  panted  for  the  enchanted 

Scenes  I  haunted  days  of  yore ; 
In  the  hollows,  where  the  swallows, 

Twitter  through  the  summer's  day, 
With  my  plighted,  how  delighted, 

I  shall  pass  my  hours  away. 


THE   REAPER. 

THE  harvest  is  o'er, 

The  reapers  are  weary, 
For  full  was  the  clover, 

The  wheat  and  its  berry ; 
Come  let  us  repose 

On  our  laurels  and  slumber, 
While  plenty  bestows 

Her  behests  without  number. 

Our  toil  was  from  morning 

'Till  twilight  descended, 
All  indolence  scorning, 

Until  the  day  ended, 
And  ere  the  night  counted 

The  gems  on  her  bosom, 
Our  sickles  were  mounted, 

All  ready  to  use  'em. 


22 


At  noon  we  retired 

To  the  shade  of  the  myrtle, 
And  listened  inspired, 

The  song  of  the  turtle  ; 
The  mocking  bird  sung  us 

His  rhapsody  o'er  us, 
And  not  one  among  us 

But  joined  in  the  chorus. 

Receipt  for  the  blessing, 

Rejoice  the  receiver, — 
Be  quick  in  addressing 

The  bountiful  giver ; 
The  harvest  is  over, 

And  heavily  laden, 
The  reaper  and  lover 

Returns  to  his  maiden. 

Success  to  the  sickle, 

Repose  to  the  reaper, 
Our  life  it  is  fickle, 

May  God  be  his  keeper ; 
To  th'  reaper  be  praises, 

For  him  strew  the  flowers, 
Wild  roses  and  daisies, 

To  sweeten  his  hours. 


THE   CHILD  AND  THE   FLOWERS. 

OH  !  can  the  flowers  talk,  my  ma,  as  poets  often  say, 
And  do  they  sing  to  their  young  buds,  an  evening's  lullaby  *? 
Oh  !  if  the  flowers  sing,  my  ma,  it  would  delight  me  so, 
I'd  give  my  shining  golden  ring,  this  moment  just  to  know. 


Upon  my  little  tulip  bed,  this  evening  will  I  lie, 

And  listen  while  I  am  asleep,  to  hear  their  melody  ; 

Or  charm  them  with  my  lisping  voice,  and  tell  them  prettily, 

That  I  have  been  so  good  to-day,  they  ought  to  sing  for  me. 

You  called  me  beautiful  my  ma,  and  kissed  me  t'  other  day, 
And  oh  !  it  made  me  feel  so  glad,  I  longed  to  sing  and  play, 
And  1  will  tell  the  blooming  flowers  how  beautiful  they  shine, 
I'm  sure  that  they  will  grateful  be  for  praise  so  sweet  as  mine. 

And  when  I've  heard  the  tulip  sing,  the  lily  and  the  rose, 
Then  I  shall  be  so  lovely  and  so  joyous  I  suppose, 
That  you  will  think  me  charming  fair,  and  call  me  pretty  Jane, 
Oh  !  I  shall  be  so  happy  then,  I'll  never  cry  again. 

This  innocent  she  laid  her  down  upon  her  flow'ry  bed, 
The  tulips  round  her  rosy  feet,  the  lilies  round  her  head,    [wild, 
She  fell  asleep,  and  dreamed  the  flowers  were  singing  sweet  and 
And  then  a  heavenly  light  arrayed  the  features  of  the  child. 

When  she  awoke,  this  little  girl  began  herself  to  sing, 
Her  voice  was  like  the  echo  when  the  zephyr  shakes  his  wing  ; 
Some  gentle  spirit  of  the  air,  had  watched  her  early  powers, 
And  whispered  in  her  dreamy  ear  the  music  of  the  flowers. 

The  lily  sung — "  how  bright  are  we  around  this  gay  parterre, 
Lo  !  here's  a  rose-bud  come  to  see  us  from  another  sphere ; 
Come  sister  of  the  roses,  come  and  rest  thy  cherub  form, 
Come  sister  lie  thee  down  to  rest,  our  bed  is  sweet  and  warm. 

kt  But  though  our  couch  be  beautiful,  and  breathe  a  rich  perfuuu', 
It  ne'er  was  wound  about  the  wheel,  or  tortured  through  the  loom; 
We  did  not  toil  to  make  it  look  so  beautiful  and  sweet, 
We  did  not  spin  the  silken  thread  that  winds  about  your  feet. 


24  SONGS. 

"  The  Power  that  made  all  heavenly  things,  the  morning  or  the 
To  him  we  owe  our  offerings,  and  unto  him  we  pray  ;  [day, 

'Twas  he  arranged  our  colors  bright,  and  bid  us  to  outshine 
The  throne  of  Judah,  and  to  tell  our  origin  divine. 

"  Then  learn  of  us  our  smiling  guest,  all  worldly  cares  to  shun, 
Obey  and  love  your  heavenly  friend,  and  all  the  rest  is  done ; 
For  he  who  clothes  such  worthless  things  and  perishing  as  we, 
Will  not  forget  the  lovely  child  that  seeks  our  melody." 

This  fav'rite  of  the  bud  and  flowers,  so  beautiful  and  good, 
Has  charmed  away  her  infant  days  and  grown  to  womanhood 
And  often  do  I  sit  alone,  beneath  her  window  bowers, 
To  listen  to  her  sweetest  song,  the  anthem  of  the  flowers. 


THE   JOLLY   TAR. 

COME  each  jolly  fellow, 
That  loves  to  get  mellow, 

Attend  unto  me  and  be  easy, 
For  not  to  be  jolly 
It  is  a  great  folly, 

Dull  thinking  will  make  a  man  crazy 
Then  fare-thee-well  sorrow, 
Good-by  to  the  morrow, 

The  present  demands  our  devotion  ; 
Each  man  take  your  station 
With  exhilaration, 

For  mirth  is  the  greatest  promotion. 
One  moment  of  pleasure 
Is  worth  all  the  treasure, 

The  earth  ever  ?aw.  or  the  ocean  : 


SONGS.  25 

Then  fill  up  the  glasses, 
And  drink  to  the  lasses, 
For  Time  he  is  always  in  motion. 

Come  bring  us  the  juices, 
That  friendship  infuses, 

And  brings  all  mankind  to  a  level ; 
Come  bring  us  the  juices, 
That  every  one  chooses, 

And  the  priest  he  may  go  to  the  d — I. 

The  world  it  is  knavish. 
And  men  they  are  slavish, 

Their  friendship  is  only  profession  ; 
But  give  me  the  feature, 
That  speaks  the  good  creature, 

And  I'm  sure  of  his  hearty  possession. 

Then  pass  round  the  rosy, 
And  let  us  be  cozy, 

This  night  we  have  made  our  election ; 
The  pale  faces  wonder, 
And  deal  out  their  thunder, 

And  rail  at  a  ruddy  complexion 


THE   AMERICAN    SAILOR. 

MY  ship's  on  the  ocean, 
Tossed  over  the  wave, 

And  proud  is  her  motion, 
And  gallant  and  brave  : 


26 


Her  pilot  is  glory, 

Her  name  it  is  Free, 
And  tyrant  and  tory 

She'll  sweep  from  the  sea. 

She's  firm  as  the  Roman, 

As  fierce  as  the  Greek, 
On  liberty's  foemen 

Her  vengeance  to  wreak ; 
J  know  her  defenders, 

They  stand  by  the  stars, 
And  she  never  surrenders 

Her  jolly  Jack  Tars. 

She'  swift  as  the  eagle, 

Outspread  on  the  sky, 
Her  bearing  as  regal, 

Determined,  and  high, 
Through  darkness  and  danger 

She  dashes  the  foam, 
The  pride  and  avenger 

Of  freedom  and  home. 

There's  a  girl  in  a  valley, 

My  own  heart's  delight, 
She  bid  me  to  rally 

My  tars  to  the  fight. 
1  muse  on  her  beauty, 

Her  looks  so  divine, 
And  her  words — '-'•  do  your  July 

My  Jack,  and  be  mine.5' 

xvly  ship's  on  the  occau, 
My  girl  in  the  vale. 


27 


I  pay  my  devotion 
To  both  as  I  sail ; 

The  one  share's  my  valor, 
The  other  my  name — 

A  toast  for  the  sailor, 
And  beauty  and  fame. 


THE    MERRY   CROW. 

SOME  sing  the  robin,  some  the  lark, 
For  some  the  dove  of  Noah's  ark, 

Command  their  numbers  flow ; 
But  tho'  his  vestments  be  so  dark, 

Commend  me  the  merry  crow. 

He  seeks  the  copses  of  the  heath, 
And  pecks  the  seed  that  falls  beneath, 

Upon  the  driven  snow ; 
Then  lays  upon  its  cushioned  wreath, 

And  sleeps — does  the  merry  crow. 

He  is  a  patriot,  and  standa 
Unflinching  for  his  native  lands ; 

Tho'  winter  bids  him  go, 
He  wont  obey  his  cold  command, 

Not  the  merry,  merry  crow. 

He  understands  the  terms  of  law, 
Nor  does  he  fear  your  man  of  straw, 

John  Doe,  or  Richard  Roe  ; 
His  plea  is  always  claw,  claw,  claw, 

A  lawyer  is  the  merry  crow. 


28  SONGS. 

He  is  dogmatic  as  a  judge, 

And  from  his  text  he  will  not  budge : 

He  tells  the  farmer  so, 
That  when  the  corn  is  ripe,  to  grudge 

A  share  to  the  merry  crow. 

He  is  a  robber  brave  and  bold, 
As  Robinhood  in  days  of  old, 

As  little  fears  his  foe  ; 
A  rock,  or  oak,  is  the  strong  hold 

Of  the  brave  unconquered  crow. 

I  love  to  see  his  sooty  face, 
Like  Africa's  peculiar  race, 

It  speaks  of  the  summer's  glow ; 
I  deem  it  hastening  on  apace, 

When  approaches  the  merry  crow 


THE   CULTIVATED   MIND. 

THERE  is  no  gem  in  earth  or  sea, 
Polished  and  glowing  though  it  be, 

Man  may  expect  to  find, 
That  seems  so  beautiful  to  me 

As  a  cultivated  mind. 

This  moral  jewel  to  possess, 
A  kingdom  I  would  value  less 

With  golden  rivers  lined ; 
Oh !  'tis  a  stream  of  happiness, 

A  cultivated  mind. 


29 


Deprived  the  proud  aspiring  thought, 
Unfettered,  disenthralled,  unbought, 

Unbiassed,  unconfined; 
I  could  not  live  until  I'd  sought 

A  cultivated  mind. 

I  see  the  sun  of  science  rise, 

And  mellow  light  break  o'er  the  skies, 

Look  out  ye  moral  blind  ; 
Fair  freedom  guarantees  the  prize, 

A  cultivated  mind. 

Come  ye  who  grovel  in  the  dark, 
With  nature's  bright  electric  spark, 

In  ignorance  enshrined  ; 
Untiring  strive  to  reach  the  mark 

Of  a  cultivated  mind. 

What  prospects  and  what  glowing  fields 
Fair  Science  to  her  votary  yields, 

With  literature  combined ; 
He  only  surely  knows  who  wields 

A  cultivated  mind. 

The  path  is  steep  indeed  to  climb, 

But  gayly  strewed  with  mountain  thyme, 

And  flowers  of  every  kind ; 
But  gained  the  top  what  views  sublime, 

To  a  cultivated  mind. 

He  learns  to  travel  o'er  the  past, 
And  o'er  the  fields  of  space  so  vast, 

The  future  to  unbind — 
The  pleasures  will  forever  last 

Of  a  cultivated  mind. 
3* 


30 


THE  MARTIN  TO  THE  SWALLOW. 

COME  swallow,  swallow  come, 
Let  us  o'er  the  billow  roam , 
To  the  yellow  orange  bloom, 

Let  us  roam. 

To  the  balmy  islands  where 
Friends  are  waltzing  in  the  air, 
And  the  paroquet  is  player, 
We  shall  meet  the  robin  there  ; 

Swallow  come. 

Hear  the  summer's  joyful  breeze 
Sings  its  music  o'er  the  seas, 
Flying  fishes,  mellow  glees, 
Let  us  follow,  follow  these 

To  their  home. 

Hear  the  lonely  cricket  sigh 
To  the  playful  butterfly, 
Tells  the  chilling  days  are  nigh : 
Let  us  hasten,  you  and  I, 

O'er  the  foam. 

Oh  !  the  flowers  beyond  the  sea, 
Bright  and  beautiful  they  Be, 
And  they  shine  for  you  and  me ; 
Come  swallow,  let  us  flee 

To  their  bloom. 
We've  a  home  forever  green, 
Soft,  and  sunny,  and  serene, 
But  the  ocean  rolls  between ; 
Let  us  seek  the  lovely  scene, 

Through  the  gloom. 


31 


THE   DAY  I   WENT   A   CHERRYING. 

'TWAS  June,  the  birds  were  singing  sweet, 
The  boys  and  girls  agreed  to  meet, 
Among  the  trees  along  the  street, 
The  red  ripe  blushing  fruit  to  eat  ; 
They  did  not  think  of  marrying, 
The  day  they  went  a  cherrying. 

Then  I  beheld  among  the  rest, 
A  stranger  lad  so  gayly  drest, 
My  heart  a  tender  throb  confest,  — 
I  was  so  happy  and  so  blest, 
I  never  thought  of  marrying, 
The  day  I  went  a  cherrying. 

He  had  a  fond  bewitching  air, 

His  cheeks  were  round,  his  brow  was  bare, 

The  wind  played  wanton  with  his  hair  ; 

I  thought  him  fine  and  wondrous  fair, 

But  never  thought  of  marrying, 

The  day  I  went  a  cherrying. 

The  sun  as  through  the  sky  he  ploughed, 
Beheld  the  party  blest,  and  bowed 
Himself  behind  a  western  cloud, 
While  still  our  mirth  was  ringing  loud  ; 
We  never  thought  of  marrying, 
The  day  we  went  a  cherrying. 

The  stranger  lad  began  to  cast 
His  eyes  around  the  scene  at  last, 


32  SONGS. 


Said  he,  "  we've  had  a  rich  repast, 
But  now  'tis  night."    I  stood  aghast ! 
The  night  I'd  been  a  cherrying. 
As  drooped  her  curtain  dusky  ere, 
He  took  me  gently  by  the  sleeve, 
And  whispered  softly — "  by  your  leave, 
Such  loveliness  I'll  not  deceive, 
You  wont  object  to  marrying 
When  we  return  from  cherrying." 

He  took  me  in  his  arms  and  said, 
"  I  am  a  wealthy  merchant  bred, 
This  very  night  we'll  surely  wed," 
And  as  he  promised  so  he  sped ; 
That  night  we  had  a  marrying, 
When  we  returned  from  cherrying. 


THE  WILD    ROSE    OF    CURACOA. 

OF  all  the  wild  flowers  that  bloom  in  the  forest, 
A  group  of  wild  roses  to  me  is  the  fairest, 
The  morning,  the  evening's  blest  hours  are  enchanted, 
Wherever  the  wild  rose,  sweet  nature  has  planted. 

There's  singing  and  winging  and  hymning  around  it, 
The  oak  and  wild  cherry  delightfully  bound  it, 
The  linnet  has  built  her  dwelling  beneath  it, 
And  plucks  the  wild  roses  above  it  to  wreath  it. 

Oh !  why  is  the  wild  rose  to  me  such  a  treasure, 
And  why  does  it  give  me  such  exquisite  pleasure, 
Beyond  all  the  flowers  that  blazon  in  story, 
Whenever  spring  visits  the  scene  of  its  glory  7 


Its  bloom,  and  its  fragrance  and  beauty  awaken 
The  slumbering  dreams  of  an  Eden  forsaken — 
Oh  !  why  should  I  leave  that  sweet  island  so  dear, 
Where  the  wild  roses  bloom  all  the  beautiful  year  1 

Oh  !  why  did  I  leave  o'er  the  wide  waste  of  waters, 
The  fairest  and  kindest  of  Hispania's  daughters, 
To  wander  deserted  among  her  wild  flowers, 
To  mourn  for  a  lover  so  faithless  1 — ye  powers ! 

Alas !  could  I  live  o'er  the  moments  departed, 
And  could  I  recover  the  fond  broken-hearted, 
I  never  would  wander  from  gay  Petramora, 
On  the  rose-scented  river  of  green  Curacoa. 


THE   GIRL    OF    BADEN. 

From  the  banks  of  the  Rhine, 

From  the  valleys  of  Baden, 
Comes  an  angel  divine, 

In  the  form  of  a  maiden ; 
The  locks  of  her  hair 

Are  as  dark  as  the  raven, 
And  her  eye  is  a  star 

In  the  midst  of  a  heaven. 

Though  her  vales  were  so  bright, 
She  has  come  o'er  the  waters, 

With  songs  of  delight, 
To  Columbia's  daughters ; 


34 


Since  she  was  not  afraid 
Of  the  sea  and  the  danger. 

Let  us  fly  to  the  maid, 
And  say  peace  to  the  stranger. 

Let  us  carry  her  where 

Our  forests  are  laden, 
With  flowers  as  fair 

As  the  forests  of  Baden  ; 
To  the  rirers  that  shine, 

In  their  own  native  splendor,. 
As  fair  as  the  Rhine, 

In  its  beauty  and  grandeur. 

Though  our  mountains  be  wild 
As  the  m&untains  of  Edom,. 
Their  summits  are  piled 

On  the  basis  of  freedom ; 
And  although  our  sed 

Bear  the  rose  and  the  lily, 
No  tyrant  has  trod 
On  the  green  of  its  valley. 

Then,  come  to  orar  bower, 

Thou  dark  haired  maiden,. 
'Tis  freedom's  own  dower, 

And  make  it  thy  Baden, 
'Tis  priceless,  but  come, 

'Twill  be  freely  given, 
Henceforth  be  thy  home> 

With  us  and  with  heaveu. 


35 


HURRAH   TO  THE  ROBIN. 

HURRAH  !  to  the  robin,  it  is  he,  it  is  he, 
His  breast  it  is  throbbing  with  music  and  glee  ; 
Hurrah  !  to  the  robin,  he  is  come,  he  is  come. 
He  is  singing  and  sobbing  of  home,  sweet  home. 

But  beautiful  robin,  thy  home  it  is  drear, 
Too  soon  you  arrive,  and  too  punctual  here ; 
But  the  spring  will  begin,  and  the  bud  on  the  bough 
Is  bursting,  is  bursting,  its  prison  doors  now. 

Sweet  minstrel  of  morning,  how  welcome  thy  lay, 
So  mild  and  so  charming  alway,  alway, 
So  soft  and  soul-winning,  and  lively  and  sweet, 
First  minstrel  of  morning  I  greet  thee,  I  greet. 

Gay  songster  of  spring,  and  sweet  psalmist  of  light, 
I  wait  with  impatience  the  lingering  of  night ; 
But  when  thy  low  warble  first  breaks  on  mine  ear, 
What  pleasure  to  listen,  what  rapture  to  hear. 

Oh!  haste  gentle  flowers,  oh  !  hasten  to  fling 
Thy  banner  of  bliss  o'er  the  warbler  of  spring, 
Oh !  haste  gentle  flowers  thy  robes  to  employ, 
And  cover  him  o'er  with  the  curtains  of  joy. 
Hurrah,  &c. 


RETROSPECTION. 


WHEN  nature's  children  seek  repose, 
Save  but  the  humble  cricket  singing, 

i  often,  often  think  of  those 
Young  voices,  that  with  mirth  were  wringing 


36 


Their  shout  of  welcome  in  my  ears, 

As  blest,  the  joyful  group  I  followed, 
Nor  thought  that  long  in  after  years, 
Those  happy  scenes  should  be  so  hallowed. 

I  often,  often  see  again 

Those  careless,  tearless,  beaming  faces, 
When  night  has  spread  her  peaceful  reign 

Over  those  long  deserted  places ; 
Ah!  little  thought  that  cheerful  band, 

With  hearts  so  cheerful  and  elated, 
The  features  of  that  fairy  land, 

Should  be  to  mem'ry  consecrated, 

But  though  so  often  I  review, 

The  prospect  still  my  heart  engages, 
The  scenes  grow  mellow  to  the  view 

Like  pictures  drawn  by  former  ages, — 
The  dust  of  time,  the  mist  of  tears, 

But  make  them  more  and  more  enchanted, 
Like  palaces  of  former  years, 

By  loving,  lingering  spirits  haunted. 

So  when  the  friendly  night  has  drawn 

Her  chain  around  with  dewy  fingers, 
Over  each  field  and  flowery  lawn, 

The  light  of  busy  fancy  lingers, 
To  bring  the  spirits  of  the  past 

Before  me  of  the  dear  departed, 
To  tell  me  in  this  world  so  vast. 

That  I  am  lonely,  broken-hearted 


37 


THE    INVITATION. 

WHY  should  he  roam  who  has  no  home — 
Why  should  he  sail  from  sea  to  sea  1 

Come  to  our  country,  stranger,  come, 
We'll  find  a  cottage-hearth  for  thee. 

The  birds  shall  wing  around,  and  sing 
Your  welcome  to  our  land  of  joy, 

And  you  shall  share  that  blessed  thing, 
Sweet  liberty,  without  alloy. 

Our  mountain-crest,  our  valleys  blest, 
Peace,  like  an  angel  hovers  o'er ; 

Oh !  come  and  be  our  welcome  guest — 
We  claim  thee,  brother,  weep  no  more. 

How  many  bear  the  pangs  of  care, 

With  poverty  a  heavy  load, 
Who  live  upon  starvation's  fare, 

Without  protection  or  abode. 

Did  they  but  know  how  we  bestow, 
How  cheaply  cottage,  hill  and  grove, 

How  fondly  our  affections  flow, 
Our  rich  inheritance  of  love — 

With  joyful  face,  our  fond  embrace. 
They'd  seek  across  th'  Atlantic  maiii; 

And  find  a  home  and  dwelling-place, 

Where  rules  no  tyrant,  binds  no  chain. 
4 


38 


Why  should  he  roam,  who  has  no  home  1 
There  is  a  country  in  the  west, 

With  arms  extended,  bids  him  come 
Into  its  bosom  and  be  blest. 


THE    BRIGHT    BLUE   SEA. 

HAPPY  the  lot 
Of  him  whose  cot 

Stands  by  the  bright  blue  sea ; 
If  there  be  one, 
Beneath  the  sun, 

Supremely  blest,  'tis  ho 
That  sits  before 
His  cottage-door, 
With  children  on  his  knee, 
Watching  the  waves, 
Leap  from  the  caves 

Of  the  ever-bright  blue  sea  j 

Whose  sails  are  furled. 
Beside  the  world 

Of  waters  he  hath  roved. 
Whose  anchor  castt* 
Secure  and  fast, 

Upon  the  spot  beloved 
hi  youthful  days, 
Amid  the  maze, 

Of  ocean's  revelry, 
When  long  exiled, 
From  home  he  toiled, 

Over  the  bright  blue  sea. 


SONGS.  39 

Oh!  many  are 
The  isles  that  bear 

The  citron  and  the  clove, 
Whose  day  and  night 
Glow  with  delight, 

And  melody  and  love, 
That  he  has  oft 
Seen  from  aloft, 

Lie  like  tranquility, 
Sweetly  at  rest, 
Upon  the  breast 

Of  the  pearly  bright  blue  sea. 

But  there  was  one 
Sweet  spot  alone, 

That  like  attraction  true, 
His  heart  and  soul, 
Unto  ita  pole 

His  fond  affections  drew ; 
It  was  the  green 
Enchanted  scene, 

Upon  Long  Island's  lea, 
Where  his  sweet  cot 
Uprose,  I  wot, 

Down  by  the  bright  blue  sea. 


THE   OLD    UNPAINTED    HOUSES. 

THE  old  unpainted  houses 
That  yet  respected  stand, 

I  love  to  see  them  scattered  round, 
About  my  native  land ; 


40  SONGS. 

For  they  oftentimes  remind  me 
Of  a  people  passed  away — 

Those  rustic  dwellings  of  a  race, 
So  pleasant  in  decay. 

I  was  young,  but  I  remember 

The  tenants  they  contained. 
The  virtues  and  the  excellence 

That  in  each  circle  reigned, 
The  honest  worth,  and  homeliness, 

And  hospitality, 
That  welcomed  to  the  hearth  and  board, 

The  child  of  poverty. 

I  admire  these  rude  mementos, 

Moss-covered,  gray  and  old, 
Of  days  when  worth  supplied  the  plaee- 

Of  tinsel  and  of  gold ; 
When  the  wealth  of  every  yeoman 

Was  an  orchard  and  a  farm, 
And  peace-dispensing  woman 

Was  a  blessing  and  a  charm. 

The  high  and  pointed  gable, 

And  the  chimney  broad  and  low, 
And  doors  without  a  lock  or  bar, 

Fearless  of  thief  or  foe— 
They  tell  us  louder  than  the  voice 

Of  lofty  boasting  pride, 
The  humble  virtues  they  possessed. 

Who  in  them  lived  and  died. 


41 


That  unsophisticated 

And  undegenerate  race, 
Have  left  us — and  their  dwellings  old, 

Are  following  apace ; 
But  the  hist'ry  of  their  happy  lives, 

And  charitable  deeds, 
Are  written  on  the  pages  of 

Their  unpolluted  creeds. 


WINTER'S  COMING. 

WINTER'S  coming — 
Hear  the  roaming, 
See  the  foaming 

Of  the  sea; 
Winter's  coming — 
Brooks  are  humming, 
Birds  are  drumming 

On  the  tree. 

Leaves  are  whirling, 
Insects  furling, 
Clouds  are  curling 

O'er  the  sky ; 
Winds  are  sighing, 
Caves  replying, 
Colors  dying — 

What  am  1 1 

Flowers  are  sleeping, 
Showers  arc  weeping, 


42  SONGS. 


Worms  are  creeping 

In  the  ground  ; 
Foxes  meeting, 
Owls  repeating, 
Wrens  retreating 
From  the  sound. 

Tempests  toiling, 
Ocean  boiling, 
Birds  recoiling 

From  the  wave ; 
Sailors  scorning 
Nature's  warning, 
May,  ere  morning, 

Find  a  grave. 

On  the  pailing, 
And  the  railing, 
And  the  ceiling, 

Broods  the  fly ; 
Food  refusing, 
Vigor  losing, 
Sadly  musing 

How  to  die. 

Winter's  riding 
From  his  hiding- 
Place,  and  guiding 

Through  the  air  ; 
Heralds  flaming, 
Pointing,  aiming, 
And  exclaiming, 

Now — prepare  ! 


43 


AN    ELEGY    ON    MY    DOG   TOBY. 

MY  faithful  dog,  whose  bones  repose 
Beneath  the  cold,  unheeded  snows, 
He  comes  the  last  sad  rite  to  pay, 
Thy  weeping  master,  o'er  thy  clay. 

Let  none  who  see  this  simple  wreath, 
He  twines  with  sorrow  to  bequeath 
Unto  thy  mem'ry,  sad  and  dear, 
Sinile  at  his  tribute  of  a  tear. 

How  many  monuments  are  raised, 
How  many  wondering  eyes  have  gazed 
Upon  the  golden-sculptured  line, 
Whose  lives  deserved  it  less  than  thine ! 

How  many  leave  this  world  and  die, 
Without  a  friend  to  breathe  a  sigh 
Over  their  dust  when  life  is  gone — 
My  faithful  Toby,  thou  hast  one. 

The  great  assemble  round  the  tomb 
Of  pride,  until  there's  want  of  room  ; 
With  painted  grief,  and  empty  praise, 
Their  fellow- mortal  ends  his  days. 

Not  so  thy  master's  grateful  lay — 
It  beats  where  his  heart-pulses  play  ; 
And  should  he  drop  the  friendly  tear, 
He  pledges,  it  shall  be  sincere. 

What  though  no  pageant  round  thee  glow*  1 
Over  thy  dust  there  blooms  a  rose — 


44 


Over  thy  bed,  when  summer  shines, 
A  cypress  with  a  cedar  twines — 

A  grove  of  wood,  a  copse  of  yew, 
Invite  the  black-bird,  and  the  blue, 
To  raise  a  matin  from  each  limb, 
And  sing  at  eve  a  vesper-hymn. 

Often  thy  master's  voice  complains 
In  deep  and  melancholy  strains, 
As,  mourning  thy  untimely  fate, 
He  weeps  alone,  disconsolate. 

Ah  !  when  he  needs  a  constant  friend, 
His  weary  footsteps  to  attend — 
When  all  are  false,  his  eyes  may  see, 
How  often  will  he  think  of  thee ! 


TO   A    SPARROW. 

PSALMIST  of  the  morning, 

Sweetly  warbling  sparrow, 
Cold  and  hunger  scorning, 

Knowest  thou  no  sorrow  1 
Often  have  I  listened 

To  thy  joyful  hymning, 
'Till  the  tear-drop  glistened, 

And  my  eyes  were  swimming. 

When  I  know  thy  bower, 
Through  the  wintry  weather, 

Had  nor  leaf  nor  flower, 
Twining  round  together ; 


45 


When  I  know  the  danger 

Of  the  place  selected 
By  thee,  little  stranger, 

And  how  unprotected ; 

O'er  the  past  I  ponder, 

O'er  its  dreary  mazes, 
And  with  silent  wonder 

Hear  thee  sing  thy  praises ; 
After  all  thy  sadness, 

When  the  winds  were  wailing, 
Thou  art  filled  with  gladness, 

Spring  and  beauty  hailing. 

With  a  thousand  blessings, 

To  thee  never  granted, 
Comforts  and  caresses, 

I  am  discontented ; 
While  around  the  morning 

Thou  art  bliss  bestowing, 
I  am  filled  with  mourning, 

And  the  tears  are  flowing. 

Vocalist  of  flowers, 

Chorister  of  beauty, 
Lend  to  me  thy  powers, 

Teach  to  me  my  duty ; 
Learn  me  thy  caroling 

When  the  winter's  ended, 
And  the  sweet  extolling 

Of  the  bliss  extended. 


46 


THE    SAILOR-BOV. 

I  LOVE  the  sailor  best  of  all 
Good  people  I  acquaintance  call  ; 
If  he  be  short,  or  round,  or  tall, 

He  is  my  pride  and  joy  ; 
Wild  as  the  ocean  that  he  sails, 
And  pleasant  as  its  evening  gales, 
His  true  affection  never  fails 

The  heart  of  the  sailor-boy. 

O'er  erring  man  a  shield  he  throws, 
He  never  supplicates  his  foes — 
He  has  a  heart  for  human  woes 

That  keeps  him  in  employ ; 
When  sad  misfortune  meets  his  friend, 
His  purse  to  open  and  to  lend, 
And  all  his  wants  and  cares  attend, 

Is  delight  to  the  sailor-boy. 

When  storms  around  him  rage  and  roar, 
I've  seen  his  noble  spirit  soar 
Aloft,  as  though  it  hovered  o'er 

What  ocean  woukLdestroy ; 
He  dashed  aside  the  swelling  wave, 
His  arm  was  strong,  his  heart  was  brave, 
His  gen'rous  soul  delights  to  save, 

Of  the  undaunted  sailor-boy. 

His  thoughts  are  as  the  eagles  high 
That  soars  above  him  in  the  sky  ; 
Ready  to  live  or  bravely  die, 
No  dangers  him  annoy ; 


47 


To  do  his  duty  is  his  pride — 
To  stand  his  country's  flag  beside  ; 
So  Perry  lived,  so  Lawrence  died, 
Each  like  a  true  sailor-boy. 

Oh  !  when  love  bids  him  bow  the  knee 
Unto  some  soft  bewitching  she, 
'Tis  done  with  such  an  air  and  glee, 

She's  neither  shy  nor  coy ; 
He  has  his  passport  at  command — 
His  heart  all  open  in  his  hand, 
No  girl  can  the  address  withstand 

Of  the  gallant  sailor-boy. 


I   HAVE    WANDERED. 

BY  the  silvery  river  glowing. 

From  the  busy  world  retired. 
With  my  bosom  overflowing, 

Oft  I've  wandered  and  admired ; 
When  the  beautiful  around  me 

Drew  my  weary  steps  astray, 
Then  the  bliss  of  nature  found  me 

Listening  to  the  hymning  jay. 

Oh  !  how  gaily  hours  were  wasted. 
In  my  youthful  summer's  prime ; 

Oh  !  how  sweet  the  moments  tasted. 
On  those  oasis  of  time ! 


48  80NG9. 


Oft  will  busy  recollection 
Pass  their  pleasures  in  review, 

And  with  sadness  and  dejection, 
Tell  how  swift  the  moments  flew. 

J3y  the  river  and  the  forest, 

Where  I  wandered  long  ago, 
A  delighted  youthful  florist, 

There  my  tears  are  wont  to  flow  ; 
Days  of  brightness,  will  you  never 

To  my  spirit  more  return  ; 
Are  ye  lost  to  me  forever  — 

Shall  I  never  cease  to  mourn  1 


WHEN  BRITAIN'S  MARTIAL  BAND. 
•Swig  on  the  4th  of  Jidy,  at  Orient. 

WHEN  Britain's  martial  band, 
Came  to  our  peaceful  land, 

In  all  its  pomp  aud  bright  array, 
It  tried  for  many  a  year, 
To  take  our  father's  dear 

And  glorious  birth-right  away, 

Columbia  streamed  with  blood, 
But  she  appealed  to  God, 

And  gained  a  glorious  victory  ; 
The  price  indeed  was  high. 
But  she  resolved  to  buy 

A  charter  for  her  liberty 


Oppression  tried  in  vain 
The  fetter  and  the  chain 

To  make  the  sons  of  freedom  wear  ; 
"  Dare  you,"  it  said,  "  rebel 
Against  your  sov'reign's  will  1 " 

They  answered  in  a  shout — "we  dare  !" 

Age  thought  no  more  of  years, 
Nor  youth  of  smiles  or  tears — 

One  heart  inspired — one  interest — all ; 
To  face  the  hosts  of  kings, 
They  fly  on  glory's  wings, 

"  We  gain  the  day,"  they  cry,  "  or  fall.' 

Behold  each  hero  now 

Part  from  his  home  and  plough, 

Prepared  to  meet  his  country's  foe ; 
The  matron  fond,  exiled 
Her  bosom-friend  and  child, 

And  bid  them  to  the  rescue  go. 

March,  march,  the  watchword  grew, 
And  quick  the  squadrons  flew — 

In  heart  and  soul  there  was  but  one  ; 
Like  rushing  winds  they  come — 
Home,  home,  ye  Britons,  home, 

Or  feel  the  wrath  of  Washington. 

Old  England's  lion  roared, 
When  our  young  eagle  soared, 

And  darted  on  the  great  Burgoyne; 
Then  shouts  of  joy  arose, 
Amid  the  wild  echoes 

Of  Monmouth  hills  and  Brandy  wine 


50  SONGS. 


A  Power  unseen  inspired, 
Each  noble  bosom  fired — 

Slaves  they  were  never  born  to  be ; 
On !  on !  the  living  cried — 
The  dying  ones  replied, 

On  !  on  !  to  immortality. 


THE  WHIPPOWIL. 

WHEN  the  verdure  decks  the  hill, 

Listen  to  the  whippowil ; 
Lo  !  he  sings  a  plaintive  tale, 
Nightly  to  the  listening  vale ; 

When  the  eve  is  soft  and  still, 

Listen  to  the  whippowil. 

All  the  night  he  pours  his  lay 
In  the  ear  of  happy  May ; 

All  the  night  he  sits  and  sings. 

With  the  dew  upon  his  wings ; 
Poignant  feelings  would  you  kill, 
Listen  to  the  whippowil. 

Should  your  lover  faithless  prove, 

Lady,  seek  the  vocal  grove  ; 

When  the  stars  are  shining  bright, 
O'er  the  curtains  of  the  night. 

Softer  than  a  warbling  rill, 

Sings  the  lonely  whippowil. 

If  a  passion  in  your  breast 
Hide  ita  secret,  unexpressed, 


SONGS.  51 


Then  beside  the  silent  grove, 
Shed  the  tears  of  hopeless  love ; 
Tears  your  eyes  shall  quickly  fill, 
Listening  to  the  whippowil. 

When,  to  gain  your  maiden's  heart, 
You've  exhausted  every  art, 

Take  her  on  your  arm  at  eve  ; 

Quickly  will  her  bosom  heave, 
With  a  sweet  consenting  thrill, 
When  she  hears  the  whippowil. 


THE   APPEAL. 

THE  north  wind  is  howling, 

The  songsters  are  still, 
The  sportsmen  are  fowling, 

And  brisk  turns  the  mill  ; 
The  waters  are  frozen, 

And  merry  youths  rise 
From  the  ice,  by  the  dozen, 

With  stars  in  their  eyes. 

The  matrons  are  gazing 

On  teapots  and  stews, 
The  fire  it  is  blazing — 

Take  care  of  your  shoes ; 
The  boys  they  are  ringing 

The  bells  for  a  ride, 
The  girls  gayly  flinging 

Their  ringlets  aside. 


54 


MY    RIVER. 

I  HAVE  a  little  river, 

A  gentle  little  stream  ; 
The  rays  that  on  it  quiver, 

Shone  on  my  childhood's  drea,m. 

The  roses  on  its  border, 

I've  kissed  them  o'er  and  o'er ; 
The  alders  stand  in  order, 

Upon  its  pleasant  shore. 

The  groves  around  it  bowing 
Are  not  like  other  groves — 

They're  vocal  with  the  vowing 
Of  more  exquisite  loves. 

The  black-bird  and  the  linnet 
Sing  sweetly  all  the  day, 

And  bathe  with  rapture  in  it 
The  sunny  hours  away. 

My  river's  banks  are  bfended 
With  beauty  all  the  year, 

For  when  the  summer's  ended, 
The  ivy-leaves  appear. 

And  when  the  russet  cover 
Of  winter  gathers  round, 

The  dipper  and  the  plover 
And  merry-wing  abound. 


SONGS.  55 


No  stormy  winds  invade 

My  little  silent  rill 
Tis  just  as  Heaven  made  it, 

As  beautiful  and  still. 

Oft  have  [  sung  its  praises, 
But  still  the  more  I  sing, 

Sweet  inspiration  raises 
Some  undiscovered  string. 


OH  !    MEET    ME    NOT    BY    MOONLIGHT. 

OH  !  meet  me  not  by  moonlight, 

For  hers  are  tell-tale  skies, 
But  only  when  the  silent  eve 

Is  lighted  by  thine  eyes  ; 
In  some  sequestered  valley, 
That's  consecrated  wholly 
To  love  and  me,  to  love  and  thee. 

We'll  make  our  paradise. 

Oh !  meet  me  not  when  stillness 

Reposes  on  the  ear, 
For  well  I  know  my  ardent  vow 

May  bring  a  listener  near ; 
Come  when  the  winds  are  waving 
Adieu  to  blossoms  leaving 
The  lonely  tree  that  covers  me— 

Then  fairy-like  appear. 

Yes,  meet  me  when  the  cricket 
To  midnight  sweetly  sings, 


54 


MY   RIVER. 

I  HAVE  a  little  river, 

A  gentle  little  stream  ; 
The  rays  that  on  it  quiver, 

Shone  on  my  childhood's  drea.m. 

The  roses  on  its  border, 

I've  kissed  them  o'er  and  o'er ; 
The  alders  stand  in  order, 

Upon  its  pleasant  shore. 

The  groves  around  it  bowing 
Are  not  like  other  groves — 

They're  vocal  with  the  vowing 
Of  more  exquisite  loves. 

The  black-bird  and  the  linnet 
Sing  sweetly  all  the  day, 

And  bathe  with  rapture  in  it 
The  sunny  hours  away. 

My  river's  banks  are  bfended 
With  beauty  all  the  year, 

For  when  the  summer's  ended, 
The  ivy-leaves  appear. 

And  when  the  russet  cover 
Of  winter  gathers  round, 

The  dipper  and  the  plover 
And  merry-wing  abound. 


SONGS.  55 


No  stormy  winds  invade 

My  little  silent  rill 
Tis  just  as  Heaven  made  it, 

As  beautiful  and  still. 

Oft  have  [  sung  its  praises, 
But  still  the  more  I  sing, 

Sweet  inspiration  raises 
Some  undiscovered  string. 


OH !    MEET   ME   NOT    BY   MOONLIGHT. 

OH  !  meet  me  not  by  moonlight, 

For  hers  are  tell-tale  skies, 
But  only  when  the  silent  eve 

Is  lighted  by  thine  eyes  ; 
In  some  sequestered  valley, 
That's  consecrated  wholly 
To  love  and  me,  to  love  and  thee. 

We'll  make  our  paradise. 

Oh !  meet  me  not  when  stillness 

Reposes  on  the  ear, 
For  well  I  know  my  ardent  vow 

May  bring  a  listener  near ; 
Come  when  the  winds  are  waving 
Adieu  to  blossoms  leaving 
The  lonely  tree  that  covers  me— 

Then  fairy-like  appear. 

Yes,  meet  me  when  the  cricket 
To  midnight  sweetly  sings, 


56 


For  there  should  be  soft  melody 

For  lore's  pure  listenings ; 
And  when  the  flowers  are  sleeping, 
And  turtle-doves  are  keeping 
Their  vigils  round  love's  hallowed  ground, 
With  folded  dewy  wings. 

Come  with  a  step  of  lightness, 

As  stealthy  fairies  roam, 
And  with  me  stay  till  waking  day 

Bids  fairies  to  begone  ; 
Then,  ere  the  robin's  hymning, 
I'll  kiss  the  cheek  all  swimming 
In  honey-dew,  the  nectar  through, 

Beside  your  cottage  home. 


Is  NOT  the  man  who  toils  for  bread 
Entitled  to  a  humble  shed, 

Upon  his  native  land  1 
Must  he  be  ushered  in  thp  street, 
Death  and  starvation's  ghost  to  meet, 

By  man's  inhuman  hand  7 

Shall  lordling  insolence  and  pride 
Over  their  helpless  victims  ride, 

Whom  they  have  chained  and  thonged, 
And  not  a  voice  be  raised  on  high, 
Nor  flashing  sword,  demanding  why 

These  men  are  robbed  and  wronged  1 


57 


Did  freedom's  eagle  spread  her  wing, 
Blessing  and  happiness  to  bring 

To  us,  and  us  alone  1 
O'Connor's  hlood,  O'Brien  cries, 
And  Mitchell  lifts  his  hollow  eyes, 

Imploring  vengeance  on  ! 

Shall  we,  who  proudly  make  our  boast 
We  lead  the  van  of  freedom's  host, 

Sit  down  and  tamely  see 
The  tyrant  bandit  stab  and  gore 
The  struggling  millions,  who  implore 

Help  from  the  brave  and  free "? 

Forbid  it  man,  forbid  it  God  ! 
And  ye  who  tread  on  freedom's  sod, 

Forbid  it,  and  away  ; 
Marshal  your  ranks,  to  Erin,  fly, 
And  triumph  with  her  sons,  or  die, 

Nor  brook  an  hour's  delay  ! 


LOVELY   SUE. 


WHEN  first  I  courted  Sue, 

Her  cheeks  were  red  as  roses  ; 
Her  lips  were  rosy  too, 

As  every  one  supposes  ; 
Her  waist  was  tight,  her  eyes  were  bright, 

Her  brow  was  alabaster  ; 
I  gazed  upon  her  with  delight, 

And  with  the  gods  I  classed  her. 


58 


When  spring  came  dancing  by, 

With  the  robin  on  his  shoulder 
And  laughter  in  his  eye, 

I  grew  a  little  bolder ; 
We  walked  and  sung  the  groves  among, 

Then  gently  I  caressed  her  ; 
Upon  her  snowy  neck  I  hung, 

And  to  my  bosom  pressed  her. 

Then  summer,  robed  in  light, 

All  jeweled,  green,  and  golden, 
Came,  with  his  sickle  bright, 

As  in  the  harvests  olden  ; 
Among  the  hay  we  went  to  play — 

The  flowers  all  called  her  sister  ; 
I  gazed  and  sighed — what  could  I  say  ? 

'Twas  twilight — so  I  kissed  her. 

But  happy  autumn  soon 

Came,  with  his  fall  carousal, 
And  brought  a  honey-moon, 

To  bless  my  love's  espousal ; 
Alas !  too  late,  I  read  my  fate — 

It  was  a  sad  disaster ; 
I  sigh,  kind  reader,  to  relate, 

My  mistress  proved  my— master. 


THE    MOSSY    GRAVE-STONE. 

ONE  day,  while  musing  on  the  care 
That  man  endures,  and  pains, 

My  willing  footsteps  led  me  where 
Reposes  his  remains ; 


59 


The  tall  grass  o'er  the  hillocks  waved, 

Like  sorrow  sad  and  lone  ; 
I  read  the  humble  names  engraved 

Upon  each  mossy  stone. 

The  moaning  wave  brought  to  the  shore 

A  dirge  sent  home  from  sea — 
The  hollow  winds  were  waving  o'er, 

Man's  wretched  destiny ; 
The  tears  of  Love  had  ceased  to  fell, 

And  friendship's  gift  was  gone, 
But  nature  kept  her  funeral, 

Around  each  mossy  stone. 

Is  this  the  end  of  human  pride  1 

I  asked  in  accents  wild  ; 
All  lie  forgotten  here,  beside 

A  brother,  wife,  or  child ; 
Succeeding  generations  crowd 

The  city,  one  by  one  ; 
The  great  are  level' d,  and  the  proud, 

Beneath  the  mossy  stone. 

I  wept,  o'er  generations  fled, 

Griefs  unavailing  tears — 
Not  only  for  the  slumbering  dead, 

But  for  the  young  in  years— 
To  think  that  beauty,  youth  au«i  luvt. 

All  bright  aud  summer-blown , 
Must  quickly  have  the  cypress  wove 

Upon  their  mossy  bed. 


60 


YOUTHFUL   DAYS. 

OH  !  remember  youthful  days, 
As  they  shone  in  summer's  blaze, 
When  we  hymned  the  morning's  praise — 
Youthful  days. 

We  must  part — the  blissful  hours, 
That  we  stole  in  pleasure's  bowers, 
Never  shall  return  with  flowers — 

Blissful  hours. 

We  must  part — the  dreamy  eyes, 
With  their  pure  and  angel  dies, 
That  beheld  our  youthful  joys — 

Dreamy  eyes. 

Often  lisp  the  evening  tong 

That  we  harped  the  groves  among, 

When  we  knew  not  we  were  young — 

Evening  song. 

Oft  revive  the  holy  flame 

We  could  breathe,  but  dare  not  name, 

When  first-love  an  angel  came — 

Holy  flame. 

Oh  !  bring  rosy  \vix-iiths  of  love, 
^'uch  as  bind  true  hearts  above, 
By  eternal  beauty  nore— 

Wreaths  of  love. 


61 


Let  them  thus  an  emblem  be. 
Pure  and  perfect,  heavenly, 
Of  our  love's  eternity — 

An  emblem  be. 

Then  but  give  mo  kisses  true, 
As  I  fondly  gave  to  you, 
When  I  bade  you  last  adieu — 

Kisses  true. 


THE    PILOT — SONG   OF    THE    ROBIN. 

Blooming  vi'let, 

Lovely  pilot, 

O'er  each  continent  and  islet, 

Lo !  the  robin's 

Breast  is  throbbing — 

For  his  absent  love  he's  sobbing  ; 

Lovely  vi'let, 

Be  her  pilot 

O'er  each  continent  and  islet — 

Quick,  quick,  quick. 

Flowers  are  blooming, 

Birds  are  pluming, 

And  the  bee  around  is  humming  ; 

All  is  motion 

And  devotion, 

O'er  the  sea  and  o'er  the  ocean ; 

Lovely  vi'let, 

Be  her  pilot 

O'er  each  continent  and  islet — 

Quick,  quick,  quick 


62  SONGS. 


See  the  mellow 

Eastern  halo  ! 

Spring  is  coming,  little  fellow — 

He  is  winging 

O'er  the  springing 

Buds  and  flowers,  while  I  am  singing  ; 

Lovely  vilet, 

Be  her  pilot 

O'er  each  continent  and  islet — 

Quick,  quick,  quick. 

Buds  are  breaking, 

Woods  awaking, 

While  my  lonely  heart  is  aching, 

And  the  thrushes 

Mock  my  blushes, 

As  I  warble  through  the  bushes ; 

Lovely  vi'let, 

Be  her  pilot 

O'er  each  continent  and  islet — 

Quick,  quick,  quick. 


THE   GOLDEN    DATS   OF   SUMMER. 

THE  golden  days  of  Summer — 

t  hear  them  on  their  way, 
Where  the  waters  gently  munuui . 

And  the  children  are  at  play  : 
Where  the  swallow  twitters  over 

The  merry  fields  again, 
Aud  the  turtle  to  her  lover 

Chants  her  melancholy  strain. 


SONGS.  63 

Where  the  red-bird's  bosom  blushes 

To  behold  the  rising  sun, 
And  the  orchard  robin  rushes 

To  the  maiden  he  hath  won  ; 
Where  the  thresher,  and  the  drummer, 

In  the  foliage  make  their  lair, 
The  golden  days  of  Summer 

Soon  will  bloom  in  beauty  there. 

The  golden  days  of  Summer — 

They  have  joys  for  us  in  store, 
And  life's  lamp,  that  doth  but  glimmer, 

Shall  be  drest  with  flow'rs  once  more, 
When  the  summer  on  the  roses 

Breathes  the  soft  and  balmy  gale, 
And  the  evening  dew  reposes 

On  the  flowrets  of  the  vale. 

The  brightest  days  of  Summer, 

And  the  evenings  star'd  with  gold, 
To  the  flower-encircled  Farmer 

Soon  their  be&uties  will  unfold ; 
And  the  fragrance  of  the  clover, 

And  the  freshness  of  the  fern, 
Like  a  long-expected  lover, 

How  delightful  their  return ! 

The  golden  days  of  Summer — 

I  see  them  on  their  way, 
And  I  hear  their  gentle  murmur, 

At  the  rosy  feet  of  May  ; 
And  the  beaming  of  their  brightness 

Doth  an  ecstacy  impart, 
And  a  gaiety  and  lightness 

To  my  weariness  of  heart. 


WHITS  all  the  sky  is  clouded  o'er. 
And  shining  suns  rejoice  no  more, 

And  fettered  are  the  streams  ; 
When  frosty  winds  begin  to  blow. 
And  all  the  fields  are  white  with  snow. 
What  can  give  pleasure  here  below, 

But  dreams  ? 

When  all  the  birds  have  left  the  trees, 
And  vocal  sounds  no  longer  please, 

And  loud  the  owlet  screams ; 
When  robin-red-breast's  note  is  still, 
And  silence  chains  the  whippowil, 
Where  can  we  hear  sweet  music  thrill  1 

In  dreams. 

When  distance,  with  an  envious  hand, 
Hides  from  us  our  own  native  land, 

Glowing  in  summer  beams, 
What  but  the  magic  wand  of  sleep 
Can  waft  us,  o'er  the  mighty  deep, 
Home  to  our  friends,  to  laugh  and  weep, 

But  dreams  1 

When  age  comes  creeping  on  apace, 
And  we  hare  almost  run  our  race, 

Verging  on  life's  extremes, 
What  can  our  childish  days  recall — 
Our  playmates  from  the  gloomy  pall, 
And  youth,  and  hope,  and  strength,  and  all, 

Like  dreams  1 


65 


When  love  beholds  life's  waning  year, 
And  leaves  our  frigid  atmosphere, 

(For  so  'tis  best  he  deems,) 
What  can  the  dimpled  god  restore, 
With  smiles  and  bloom  all  covered  o'er, 

But  dreams  1 

When  bleak  misfortune  in  our  path 
Stands,  naked  in  his  stormy  wrath, 

And  life  a  burthen  seems, 
With  ills  and  disappointments  rife, 
What  soon  can  end  all  care  and  strife, 
And  call  prosperity  to  life, 

But  dreams  1 


MY    OLD   PLAYMATES. 

THE  hills  with  green  are  covered  o'er, 
The  mossy  rocks  as  heretofore, 
And  many  an  oak  I  used  to  see 
Is  still  a  green  and  goodly  tree  ; 
And  vale  and  stream,  they  shine  as  bright, 
As  warm  by  day,  as  mild  by  night ; 
But  oh  !  my  playmates,  few  are  they, 
And  e'en  their  heads  are  turning  gray. 

How  unexpected  and  how  strange 
Tho  swift,  the  melancholy  change ! 
1  look  upon  it  with  amaze — 
Companions  of  my  youthful  days, 
6* 


66 


"  Can  these  bo  you  1"  I  oft  exclaim  ; 

"  Can  it  be  possible  !  the  same 
Young  boys,  with  whom  i  used  to  play, 
Whose  heads  so  soon  are  turning  gray  1" 

It  seems  but  yesterday  that  ye 
"Were  frolicking  upon  the  lea, 
Chasing  the  butterflies  at  school, 
As  happy,  gay,  and  beautiful ; 
Are  these  the  ones  I  now  behold, 
Those  wanton  boys,  so  grim  and  old  ; 
The  boys  with  whom  I  used  to  play, 
With  steps  so  slow,  and  heads  so  gray  1 

How  gladly  would  my  heart  esteem 
This  transformation  all  a  dream, 
And  waking,  clasp  you  to  my  breast, 
Myself  a  cherub  like  the  rest, 
And  lead  you  to  the  scenes  of  joy, 
The  scenes  of  the  enraptured  boy  ; 
Come,  I  was  wont  to  lead  the  way — 
Alas !  your  heads  are  turning  gray. 

Relentless  Time,  I  bid  the  pause 
The  stern  infliction  of  thy  laws  ! 
The  valley  still  its  verdure  wears, 
The  lofty  pine  thy  mercy  spares ; 
Then  spare  the  few,  that  still  remain, 
Green  leaves  of  life  to  age  and  pain, 
To  them  with  whom  I  used  to  play, 
And  keep  their  heads  from  turning  gray. 


67 


THE    PRUSSIAN    BOY. 

WHEN,  roaming  from  my  country  far, 
I  gaze  upon  the  evening  star, 
And  'neath  its  rays  I  seem  to  see 
Her  scenes  in  all  their  majesty, 
I  see  her  hills,  I  see  her  vales, 
And  seem  to  breathe  her  balmy  gales, 
While  in  a  foreign  land's  employ, 
As  when  I  roved  a  Prussian  boy. 

Where  MemePs  gentle  waters  flow, 
Again  I  see  the  twilight  glow, 
And  on  its  banks  again  I  rove, 
With  happiness,  and  peace,  and  love  ; 
The  playmate,  and  the  cottage  dear, 
To  my  fond  fancy  reappear — 
The  welcome  hearth,  the  cheerful  flame, 
And  oh !  that  loved  one,  still  the  same. 

Land  of  my  birth,  land  of  my  pride, 

While  sailing  o'er  the  ocean-tide, 

I  never,  never  can  forget 

Thy  beauteous  scenes ; — I  love  thee  yet ! 

The  Baltic's  wave,  the  Vistula, 

Before  my  roving  fancy  play, 

And  all  the  joys  that  once  were  mine — 

Distance  but  makes  them  more  divine. 

Friends  I  have  left,  and  stream  and  hill, 
And  what  to  me  are  dearer  still, 
In  my  far  country,  though  exiled, 
I  still  possess  a  wife  and  child  ; 


68 


Where  Memel  flows,  where  Memel  swells, 
My  glowing  thought  forever  dwells ; 
Once  more  I  would  its  scenes  enjoy, 
And  rove  a  happy  Prussian  boy. 


SPRING  FLOWERS. 

SPRING  flowers  are  blooming  o'er  valley  and  hill, 
Wild  flowers  are  budding  by  morass  and  rill, 
And  sweet  in  their  bowers  the  little  birds  sing 
Their  songs  of  delight  to  the  goddess  of  spring. 

How  oft  by  the  river  I've  laid  me  along 
The  beds  of  wild  roses,  to  list  to  their  song, 
Until  all  depression,  and  sorrow,  and  care, 
Were  lost  in  the  ocean  of  melody  there. 

Like  them,  I  would  live  in  a  sea  of  perfume, 
And  be  a  wild  bird  in  a  bower  of  bloom, 
And  live  all  my  life  but  to  harp  and  to  sing 
The  rapture  of  love  and  the  beauty  of  spring. 

Should  winter  e'er  visit  my  dwelling  of  peace, 
I'd  wing  myself  over  the  murmuring  seas, 
Until  I  should  meet  with  the  breathing  of  bowers, 
Then  lay  myself  down  in  an  island  of  flowers. 

And  there  I  would  rest  from  my  toils  o'er  the  sea, 
And  forever  a  songster  of  paradise  be, 
And  all  the  day  long,  and  all  the  night  sing 
The  glory  and  gladness  and  beauty  of  spring. 


THE   GARLAND. 

I  SOUGHT  for  a  garland  to  crown  the  new  year, 

Where  of  late  I  delightedly  strayed, 
But  the  green  leaf  had  faded  all  withered  and  sear, 
And  the  hollow  winds  murmured,  "  Oh  !  wander  not  here, 

For  the  garland-leaf  lowly  is  laid  ;" 

On  the  field  where  the  flow'r  did  its  tendrils  unfold, 

At  the  call  of  the  capering  spring, 
I  stood— but  a  story  its  dreariness  told, 
Like  the  cities  that  flourished  and  perished  of  old, 

A  wild  desert  is  all  i  can  hring  ; 

By  the  brow  of  the  hill  where  the  damask  rose  played, 

With  the  zephyr  that  rose  from  the  sea, 
When  the  summer  was  all  in  its  splendor  arrayed, 
And  glory  and  light — but  its  barrenness  said, 

"  Alas  !  I've  no  garland  for  thee ;" 

By  the  edge  of  a  stream,  where  the  pond-lily  grew, 

Then  with  sorrowful  musing  I  turned, 
Where  in  autumn  it  stood  in  its  mantle  of  blue — 
But  the  gentle  stream  babbled,  "  Here's  nothing  for  you. 

For  my  waters  the  lily  have  urned." 

I  went  to  the  grove,  but  its  blossoms  had  fled, 
A  nd  the  white  moss  and  lichen  were  there, 

Like  the  gloomy  apparel  that  covers  the  dead ; 

Oh!  where  shall  I  find  me  a  garland  I  said, 
And  the  winter  responded,  "  Despair." 

Then  my  steps  to  a  neat  little  cottage  I  plied, 
And  told  my  regret  with  a  tear, 


70 


When  a  sweet  little  maiden  looked  up  and  replied, 
*'  I've  a  beautful  snow-drop  by  my  window-side, 

And  I'll  give  it  to  crown  the  new  year." 
Jan.,  1842. 

LAMENT    FOR   SUMMER. 

FOREVER,  oh !  forever, 

Another  summer's  gone — 
By  meadow  and  by  river, 

Again  I  sit  and  mourn  ; 
For  the  songs  and  for  the  flowers, 

And  the  music-making  rills, 
And  the  light  upon  the  towers 

Of  the  "  everlasting  hills ;" 

For  the  sunbeam  on  the  waters, 

As  the  evening  draweth  nigh, 
And  the  sail  that  on  it  loiters, 

To  see  it  passing  by ; 
And  the  laughter  of  the  maiden, 

Borne  upon  the  scented  gale, 
With  a  load  of  fragrance  laden, 

And  the  whistling  of  the  quail ; 

For  the  garland  of  the  valley, 

And  the  border  of  the  stream, 
And  the  glory,  and  the  gala, 

In  the  moon's  entrancing  beam ; 
For  the  music  of  the  forest, 

And  the  vesture  of  the  plain, 
And  a  happiness,  the  purest 

I  may  never  see  again. 


SONGS.  71 

With  a  heart  oppressed  with  sadness, 

I  gaze  upon  the  scene, 
So  lately  filled  with  gladness, 

So  beautiful  and  green  ; 
So  prodigal  of  pleasure, 

And  glorious  to  behold, 
For  1  deemed  it  more  a  treasure 

Than  the  silver  or  the  gold. 

But  all  we  fondly  cherish, 

In  affection  and  in  love, 
Must,  like  the  flowers,  perish — 

Such  is  the  decree  above  ; 
And  the  flowers  fall  before  us, 

To  learn  us  to  prepare, 
And  the  evening's  dying  chorus, 

To  tell  us  what  we  are. 
Then  summer,  with  thy  glories, 

I  bid  the  thus  adieu, 
But  thy  sunny  days,  the  stories 

Of  the  winter  shall  renew  ; 
Thou  art  not  gone  forever, 

Since  mein'ry  can  recall 
Thy  meadow  and  thy  river, 

From  their  shrouded  funeral. 


ADIEU   TO    CARE. 


WHY  should  poor  man,  his  little  span 
Of  this  uncertain  life  impair, 

By  borrowed  paiu  and  labor  vain, 
And  weary,  over-anxious  care  1 


SONGS. 

Life's  fleeting  hour,  Infinite  Power 
Makes  bright,  and  beautiful,  and  fair  ; 

Then  since  'tis  so,  adieu  to  wo, 
Adieu  to  melancholy  care. 

The  birds  rejoice  with  tuneful  voice — 

All  animals,  on  land  or  sea, 
The  tame  and  wild,  are  reconciled 

To  the  all-powerful  decree  j 
Shall  man  alone  his  lot  disown — 

Of  happiness  refuse  his  share  1 
Nay,  since  'tis  so,  adieu  to  wo, 

Adieu  to  melancholy  care. 

Oh!  let  his  days  be  spent  in  praise, 

For  sinful  man  has  more  than  all, 
Of  life  possessed,  to  make  him  blest — 

His  homage  and  his  thanks  to  call  ; 
The  sea  and  land,  at  his  command, 

For  him  their  luxuries  prepare  ; 
Then  since  'tis  so,  adieu  to  wo, 

Adieu  to  melancholy  care. 

What  boots  a  life  of  toil  and  strife  ? 

What  is  there  worth  the  tedious  while, 
Should  man  acquire  all  he  desire, 

And  glory,  fame,  and  fortune  smile  1 
They  can't  increase  the  bosom's  peace — 

The  glittering  stars  that  on  it  bear  ; 
Then  since  'tis  so,  adieu  to  wo, 

Adieu  to  melancholy  care. 

Earth,  ocean,  skies,  all  harmonize, 
And  brightness  gilds  each  shining  sphe.ro  : 


The  earth  is  bloom,  the  sea  perfume, 

Where  islands  breathe  their  fragrance  near ; 

We  need  but  choose  the  fairest  views, 
We  need  but  breathe  the  sweetest  air  : 

Then  since  'tis  so,  adieu  to  woe, 
Adieu  to  melancholy  care. 


THE    FIRST    LEAF   OF    SPRING. 

THE  first  leaf  of  spring  is  unfolding  again. 
In  splendor  to  flourish,  in  beauty  to  reign. 
Green  among  blossoms,  and  hid  among  flower*, 
Waving  on  high,  on  the  tree-top  it  towers. 

Sad  that  a  being  so  beauteous  and  fair, 
Child  of  the  sun  and  companion  of  air, 
Feeding  on  light  and  inhaling  the  dew, 
Should  live  but  one  season — alas !  is  it  true  1 

Indeed  it  is  so — for  last  autumn  I  saw, 

Prone  on  the  earth,  and  with  sadness  and  awe. 

Many  a  relic  of  many  a  gem, 

And  soon  the  spring-leaf  must  be  numbered  with  them. 

First  leaf,  I  will  lay  myself  under  thy  shade, 
Ere  the  season  thy  beautiful  form  hath  betrayed 
Unto  the  unfeeling,  unpitying  blast, 
To  muse  on  the  future  and  dream  of  the  past ; 

To  sigh  for  the  past,  for  the  future  to  fear, 
Should  life  linger  on  'till  its  leaf  groweth  sear ; 
To  hope  for  a  green  and  a  goodly  old  age, 
To  fill  in  life's  chapter  a  well  written  page  ; 
7 


74 


To  learn  to  be  cheerful  and  joyous  and  gay, 
Ere  the  wrinkles  of  time  bear  the  prints  of  decay  ; 
Ere  the  furrow-worn  cheek  and  the  silvery  hair, 
Proclaim  that  the  signet  of  sorrow  is  there ; 

Thy  morning  of  brightness  with  mine  to  disclose — 
Thy  evening  of  beauty  to  join  in  repose ; 
To  bathe  in  thy  fragrance  and  drink  thy  perfume, 
And  be  blest  a  brief  hour  in  thy  Eden  of  bloom. 

For  soon  will  the  blast  of  the  tempest  return, 
With  his  withering  breath,  on  the  hurricane  borne, 
And  strip  from  the  bower  and  wring  from  the  tree, 
All  things  that  are  beautiful,  pleasant,  and — thec. 


LONG    ISLAND. 

OFT  have  I  wandered 
O'er  sea,  and  pondered 
Upon  the  blooming 
And  unassuming 
Beauty  and  quiet 
(As  I  sail'd  by  it)    „ 
Of  sweet  Long  Island- 
Its  low  and  high  land. 

In  orchards  planted, 
And  groves  enchanted, 
I  heard  the  murmur 
Of  playful  summer ; 
Birds  were  caroling, 
Vird  l^tis -trolling 


75 


O'er  fair  Long  Island- 
its  groves  and  high  land. 

The  peaceful  hamlet 
Stood  by  a  streamlet, 
And  by  its  waters 
Its  beauteous  daughters, 
Sweetly  reclining,' 
Were  flowers  combining, 
To  grace  Long  Island- 
Its  vale  and  high  land. 

Its  twilight  shaded 
Was  serenaded 
By  happy  farmers, 
Wooing  their  charmers. 
Fair  is  the  maiden, 
With  milk-pail  laden, 
Of  sweet  Long  Island, 
On  low  or  high  land. 

I  thought  if  ever 
My  rovinglever 
Should  cease  its  motion, 
I'd  leave  the  ocean, 
And,  with  some  creature 
Of  Heavenly  feature, 
Dwell  on  Long  Island- 
Its  low  or  high  land. 

A  land  so  peaceful, 
So  green  and  graceful, 
I  said,  would  render 
A  life  of  splendor 


76  SONGS. 

Despised  and  hated. 
If  I  were  mated 
On  sweet  Long  Island — 
Its  low  or  high  land. 

'Tis  there  the  graces 
Adorn  the  faces, 
And  sweet  compassion 
Is  all  in  fashion; 
E'en  want  reposes 
On  beds  of  roses, 
On  soft  Long  Island — 
Its  low  and  high  land. 

Blest  and  contented, 
And  unacquainted 
With  folly's  glitter, 
No  thoughts  embitter 
The  happy  quiet 
Of  them  who  diet 
On  green  Long  Island — 
Its  low  or  high  land. 

'Twas  thus,  pursuing 
My  thoughts,  and  viewing 
The  landscape  glowing 
And  overflowing 
With  milk  and  honey, 
And  "lasses  bonny," 
I  passed  Long  Island- 
Its  low  and  high  land. 


77 


ON   A   MOTHER   TEACHING   HER    CHILD    TO  PLAY    ON   THE 
HARP. 

OFTEN  my  child,  I've  often  bent 

To  hear  the  sound 
Of  that  heart-thrilling  instrument, 
My  little  prattling  innocent, 

And  sweet  peace  found. 

Yes,  when  the  world  looked  gloomily, 

And  all  around 

Looked  sad  and  desolate  to  me, 
I  took  my  harp,  and  gazed  on  thee, 

In  sleep  profound. 

And  then  a  sweet  and  gentle  air 

My  spirit  wound, 

Such  as  a  cherub  breathes  at  prayer, 
For  lo  !  a  cherub's  soul  laid  there, 

In  slumber  bound. 

My  harp  of  future  times  would  speak, 

If  fortune  frowned — 
Of  happiness  with  thee  to  seek, 
As  I  gazed  on  thy  ruby  cheek, 

So  red  and  round. 

And  now,  my  little  counterpart, 

With  ringlets  crowned, 
I  would  teach  thee  this  gentle  art, 
To  drown  the  sorrows  of  the  heart, 

As  I  have  drowned. 


78 


And  when  thy  mother's  form  shall  Jay 

In  the  cold  ground, 
At  the  soft  twilight  go  and  play 
The  song  she  taught  thy  harp  to-day, 

Over  her  mound. 


THE    BUBBLE. 

WHAT  bubbles  we  are,  and  what  bubbles  pursue, 
The  philosopher  said,  when  he  took  into  view 
The  phantom  of  life,  and  its  pleasure  and  pain, 
And  of  all  we  pursue,  the  small  portion  we  gain. 

For  life  as  a  bubble,  is  fleeting  and  fair, 
As  it  floats  on  the  ocean,  or  sails  in  the  air — 
A  promise  of  blessing,  and  beauty,  and  joy, 
A  brief  disappointment  will  quickly  destroy. 

The  burst  of  a  sorrow,  the  sunset  of  youth, 
And  the  romance  of  life  is  a  hackneyed  truth — 
With  its  lustre  all  faded,  its  glory  all  fled, 
And  the  clouds  of  the  future  its  halo  o'erspread. 

Pride,  wealth,  and  ambition,  are  bubble  and  show— 
The  past  has  revealed  them,  and  buried  them  low  ; 
The  palace  has  mouldered,  the  prince  on  his  throne. 
And  but  little  remains  of  what  ages  have  done. 

A  borrowed  deceit  is  the  bubble  we  prize — 
A  thirty  years'  lease  of  its  sorrows  and  sighs  ; 
And  we  always  receive  with  the  loan  of  our  breath, 
The  bondage  of  sin,  and  the  slavery  of  death. 


79 


Bubbles  in  being  and  moulded  in  clay, 
Brief  is  our  pilgrimage,  swift  our  decay — 
And  all  we  can  say  when  the  spirit  has  fled, 
Is,  our  friends  are  no  more,  let  us  bury  the  dead  ! 

And  is  it  for  this  that  our  trials  are  borne  ; 

That  the  sun  of  our  childhood  so  brilliantly  shone — 

Blooming  in  beauty,  and  blazing  in  light, 

And  ending  like  bubbles,  in  tears  and  in  night  1 

Thus  musing,  I  met  the  great  man  in  his  pride, 
His  cheeks  in  the  sun  of  prosperity  dyed ; 
But  the  morrow  displayed  a  long  funeral  train — 
His  wealth,  pride,  and  power,  his  prospects  how  vain. 

The  scorn  on  his  lip  into  marble  had  turned, 
And  his  pomp  and  his  greatness,  the  coffin  inurned  ; 
And  the  infant  looked  on  the  pale  features  and  smiled, 
And  the  mother  held  close  to  her  bosom  her  child. 

"  Our  life  is  a  bubble,"  the  relative  sighed  ; 

"  Your  life  is  a  bubble,"  the  coffin  replied. 
The  truth  was  impressed  on  each  countenance  then, 
But  it  soon  disappeared  in  the  bustle  of  men. 


LIGHT,    LIBERTY,    AND    LOVE. 

WHEN  the  glad  stars  beheld  below 
This  world  beset  with  weeds  and  woe, 

They  prayed  to  mighty  Jove 
To  send  it  down  three  spirits,  famed 
In  Heaven  for  happiness,  and  named 

Light,  Liberty,  and  Love. 


80 


They  came  arrayed  in  truth  and  flame — 
In  bright  magnificence  they  came 

From  the  abodes  above ; 
And  on  a  mountain's  top  they  stood 
Alone,  in  splendid  solitude — 

Light,  Liberty,  and  Love. 

The  Light  expelled  the  reign  of  night, 
And  Liberty  began  her  fight, 

And  Love  her  garland  wove ; 
And  Science  rushed  into  the  war, 
And  Truth  and  Justice  battled  for 

Light,  Liberty,  and  Love. 

Darkness  appalled,  beheld  the  day, 
And  superstition  hid  away, 

Deep  in  her  idol  grove ; 
And  man  !  degenerate  man  arose, 
And  for  his  bright  companions  chose 

Light,  Liberty  and  Love. 

And  then  uprose  each  herb  and  flower, 
Called  by  the  warm  auspicious  hour ; 

The  cinnamon  and  clove 
Scented  the  gales,  and  fields  and  trees 
Welcomed  upon  the  joyful  breeze, 

Light,  Liberty,  and  Love. 

And  Peace,  that  long  had  mourned,  retired, 
Rejoiced  to  see  herself  desired — 

Her  olive  branch  and  dove ; 
And  Reason,  on  her  lightning  throne, 
Delighted  for  her  friends  to  own 

Light,  Liberty,  and  Love. 


81 


And  Woman,  gemmed  in  mental  worth, 
Gave  sentiment  and  knowledge  birth. 

Her  origin  to  prove — 
An  angel !  from  her  Maker's  hand, 
Endowed  with  glorious  beauty,  and 

Light,  Liberty,  and  Love. 


LONG   ISLAND   SOUND. 

Loxa  Island  Sound,  thy  waters  bound 
Upon  a  green  and  garland  shore ; 

On  every  side,  upon  thy  tide. 
Their  wealth  the  sea  and  rivers  pour. 

An  ocean  leaps  into  thy  deeps — 

A  tributary  world  is  thine  ; 
And  cities  fair,  beyond  compare, 

Upon  thy  glowing  borders  shine. 

Soft  pleasant  isles  display  their  smiles 
Along  thy  ever  murm'ring  sea, 

And  hills  and  vales  their  scented  gales 
Send  day  and  nightly  over  thee. 

Upon  thy  blue,  the  frail  canoe 
Of  the  poor  Indian  glides  no  more  ; 

But  ships  display  their  colors  gay, 
And  o'er  thy  crested'billows  soar. 

From  lands  afar,  the  gallant  tar 
Dreams  of  the  splendor  of  thy  scene, 

K  eflecting  thy  unclouded  sky, 
And  thy  dark  wreath  of  forest  green. 


82 


Thy  sunny  beams  invite  the  streams 
Into  thy  genial  flood  to  lave, 

By  mead  and  vale  they  fleetly  sail, 
And  leap  exulting  in  thy  wave. 

From  morn  to  night,  my  soul's  delight 
Thy  murmur  and  thy  view  hath  been 

For  many  a  day,  when  sorrow's  sway 
Drowned  every  fond  resource  within. 

Long  Island  Sound,  blest  be  thy  bound, 
Upon  my  own,  my  island  shore  ; 

Than  length  of  days,  than  glory's  blaze, 
"  Than  life  itself,  I  love  thee  more." 


LIBERTY. 

OH  !  who  would  not  be  free 

In  a  land  of  joy  and  bliss ; 
And  who  can  e'er  be  sad 

In  a  blooming  o.ne  like  this  1 
I  ask  the  birds  that  sing 

Upon  the  budding  tree, 
What  makes  them  always  glad, 

And  they  warble — "  Liberty." 

I  asked  the  infant  child, 

Upon  its  mother's  knee, 
Why  that  expression  wild, 

And  that  struggle  to  be  free  ? 
And  oh  !  it  sweetly  smiled, 

And  leapt  exultingly, 
That  cherub  undefiled— 

Its  delight  was— Liberty. 


Then,  since  the  birds  that  sing, 

And  the  innocent  at  play, 
Love  freedom,  1  will  love 

Thy  free  land — America  ; 
And  the  lessons  that  I  learn, 

From  mirth  and  melody, 
In  my  heart  shall  ever  burn, 

As  a  lamp  for — Liberty. 


RURAL   FELICITY. 

COME,  'tis  treason  to  our  reason, 
Out  of  season  thus  to  mourn  ; 

Melancholy  is  a  folly — 
Let's  be  jolly  in  our  turn. 

Cease  complaining,  life  is  waning, 
Nothing's  gaining  in  the  strife ; 

Fill  the  measure,  then,  of  pleasure, 
Youth's  the  leisure  time  of  life. 

Sec  the  roses,  love  discloses, 

And  imposes  on  the  young  ; 
Wreathes  descending,  graces  blending, 

Never-ending  smiles  among. 

Birds  are  calling,  and  caroling 

Soul-enthralling  melody ; 
Round  each  dwelling  mirth  is  stealing 

With  his  pealing  revelry. 

Woods  arc  ringing,  boyhood  springing, 
Dancing,  singine:,  light  and  gay  ; 


84 


Peasants  toiling,  kissing,  smiling — 
Thus  beguiling  life  away. 

Hear  the  sighing  locust  plying. 

Music  dying  on  his  Avings  ; 
While  they  glisten,  let  us  listen 

The  petition  that  he  sings. 

See,  the  humming-bee  is  coming, 
To  the  blooming  flowers  to  pay 

His  addresses  and  caresses — 
Ah  !  he  kisses  to  betray. 

Hear  the  cricket,  from  the  thicket, 
Nightly  wake  his  harp  and  sing  ; 

Tho'  so  very  solitary, 
He  is  merry,  chirruping. 

Then  be  joyful— mirth  is  lawful- 
It  is  awful  thus  to  mourn  ; 

Melancholy  is  a  folly — 
Let's  be  jolly  in  our  turn. 


I    MET    HER    BY   THE   BIVER:S    SIDE. 

1  .-\n;r  her  by  the  river's  side, 

In  health  and  beauty  blooming, 
As  through  the  trees  the  tuneful  breeze 

In  cadence  sweet  was  humming. 
What  made  that  river  look  so  fair, 

My  heart  and  fancy  warming  1 
it  was  because  my  Kate  was  there. 

So  beautiful  and  charming 


85 


My  Kate  has  gone  to  worlds  above, 
Aud  bid  me  there  to  meet  her ; 

She's  left  our  stream  of  earthly  love 
For  purer  ones,  and  sweeter. 

But  oh  !  those  banks  where  first  we  met, 

Are  dearer  now  than  ever ; 
For  there  I  seem  to  see  her  yet, 

Beside  that  gentle  river. 


AFTER   A   SHOWER. 

A  CLOUD  the  lofty  eastern  hills 
Their  brightness  ceased  to  cover  ; 

And  gladness  in  a  thousand  rills 
Was  leaping  through  the  clover. 

While  round  the  clear-complexioned  air, 
Full  shrilly  cried  the  plover  ; 

While,  list'nmg,  sat  his  spotted  fair, 
Among  the  scented  clover  ; 

1  bade  my  Mary  listen  to 

Her  own  devoted  lover, 
As  we  were  lightly  tripping  through 

The  sweetly-scented  clover. 

She  raised  her  soft  consenting  eye 

Up  toward  the  heaven  above  her  ; 
1  saw — and  ah  !  what  ecstacy 
I  found  among  the  clover. 


Fd  wandered  long  the  world  around, 

A  discontented  rover ; 
But  happiness  at  last  I  found 

Among  the  scented  clover. 


COME,  Music,  sister  of  the  Smiles. 

And  antidote  to  care ; 
When  sorrow  with  my  spirit  toils. 
Thy  syren  note  the  pain  beguiles — 

Come,  strike  a  joyful  air. 

This  world  was  not  for  sorrow  made — 

It  is  a  sweet  abode  ; 

But  flowers  must  die,  and  fields  must  fade, 
And  trusting  hearts  are  oft  betrayed — 

Life's  an  uneven  road. 

But  there  are  bowers  along  the  side, 
Where  bliss  her  smile  bestows  ; 

And  Music,  like  an  angel-guide. 

The  happy  portal  opens  wide, 
And  sings  us  to  repose. 

Then,  syren,  thy  enchantment  lend, 

'Till  I  forget  again  ; 
I'll  rest  my  brow  upon  my  hand. 
And  muse  upon  a  lovelier  land. 

Uiivisited  by  pah), 


87 


Where  song  and  flowers  keep  holiday 

Around  the  vernal  year, 
And  fadeless  youth  and  beauty  stray, 
And  love  bedecks  their  blissful  way, 

And  rapture  brings  the  tear. 


HOPELESS    LOVE. 

\ 

OH  !  who  can  tell  the  deep  distress 
Of  him  who  loves  in  vain ; 

The  dark  despair  and  loneliness — 

The  fruitless  trial  to  suppress 
The  never-ceasing  pain. 

One  strong  emotion  fills  his  breast, 

And  love  that  only  one ; 
One  secret  sorrow,  unexpressed, 
And  to  himself  alone  confest, 

That  he  is  lost — undone. 

No  hope  of  happiness  remains — 

No  balsam  for  the  smart ; 
He  loves  the  fetters — binds  the  chains— 
And  hugs  the  cause  of  all  his  pains 

Around  his  broken  heart. 

One  feeling — one  consuming  care — 

All  other  thoughts  control : 
The  hopeless  anguish  he  must  bear — 
The  wretchedness  and  deep  despair 

That  overwhelms  his  soul. 


One  vision  stands  his  eyes  before, 

That  nothing  can  remove : 
The  thought  that  he  must  hope  no  more 
To  bless,  to  worship,  and  adore 
The  object  of  his  love. 

The  desolation  of  his  lot 

Stalks  round  him  night  and  day  ; 
His  page  of  life  is  all  a  blot, 
Without  one  white,  redeeming  spot — 

Without  one  cheering  ray. 

He  seeks  in  hapless  solitude 

To  spend  his  wasted  years — 

To  hide  from  observation  rude, 

And  pour  his  life  into  a  flood 
Of  unavailing  tears. 

And  thus  he  mourns  from  day  to  day — 

Oh !  pitying  angels,  save  ! 
Release  his  spirit  from  its  clay, 
For  soon  his  shrouded  form  must  lay 
In  an  untimely  grave. 


THE    MEETING. 

As  I  laid  upon  my  pillowy, 

Wrapt  in  plumber's  mantle  fast, 
Dreaming  I  was  on  the  billow, 

Sailing  through  life's  mazes  past, 

Isle.?  of  beauty  lay  extended 
On  the  bosom  of  the  deep, 


89 


Fair  as  flowers  and  childhood  blended, 
And  as  calm  as  infant's  sleep. 

As  I  came  among  the  cluster, 
One  I  saw,  among  the  rest, 

That  appeared  with  brighter  lustre 
And  enchantment  to  be  blest. 

Gaily  then  I  plied  the  oar, 
This  enchanted  isle  to  reach ; 

Next  I  stood  upon  the  shore 
Of  a  pear-embedded  beach. 

There  I  seemed  to  meet  the  maiden 
That  in  former  times  I  knew, 

Sweet  as  orange-blossoms  laden 
With  the  nectar  of  the  dew. 

Oh  !  the  rapture  of  that  meeting 

In  that  wilderness  of  joys ; 
It  was  like  two  angels  meeting 

In  some  distant  paradise. 

Though  my  sailor  life  be  over, 

I  recall  it  with  regret; 
And  a  lover  and  a  rover 

In  my  dreams  I'm  often  yet. 

Roving  o'er  the  glowing  azure — 
Sailing  o'er  the  bounding  sea, 

All  the  world,  and  all  its  treasure, 
I  would  give  again  to  be. 


90 


HAPPINESS. 

On  !  coine  and  be  happy — 

I'll  give  you  the  copy — 
'Tis  one  I  have  studied  and  practiced  long  ; 

Be  social  and  easy, 

Man  need  not  run  crazy  ; 
Therefore,  my  kind  reader,  attend  to  my  song. 

If  sweet  one-and-twenty, 

And  money  be  plenty, 
Then  give  it  away  to  the  humble  and  poor  ; 

'Twill  give  you  a  pleasure 

Unknown  to  your  treasure, 
In  pain  and  in  sickness,  to  enter  the  door. 

If  fortune  be  frowning, 

Oh  !  do  not  be  drowning 
Your  eyes  in  a  fountain  of  profitless  tears  ; 

Be  up  and  be  cheerful, 

Be  cozy  and  careful — 
The  cloud  that  looks  blackest,  the  first  disappears. 

By  friends  if  forsaken, 

Betrayed  you  awaken 
To  perfidy,  falsehood,  deception  and  sin. 

Forgive  them — 'twill  shame  them, 

And  often  reclaim  them, 
And  peace  will  remain  your  companion  within. 

By  love  be  you  wounded, 
Transfixed  and  astounded, 
And  hopeless  your  passion  should  happen  to  grow, 


91 


Keep  cool  'till  it's  over, 
Then  find  a  new  lover — 
The  last  one's  the  best  one — you'll  find  it  is  so. 

If  single  and  lonely, 

There's  you  and  you  only 
To  sit  by  the  fire-side  or  trip  o'er  the  dew, 

Then  close  with  the  women. 

And  hasten  to  Hymen — 
I  havri't  tried  that,  but  I  recommend  you. 

If  foes  try  to  hurt  you, 

Be  shielded  by  virtue — 
Defeat  by  her  side  is  a  victory  won  ; — 

Though  crushed  for  an  hour, 

She'll  rise  in  her  power, 
And  you  shall  be  rescued  and  justice  be  done. 

The  road  that  we  travel, 

For  good  or  for  evil, 
Content  will  make  level,  and  cheerfulness  bright ; 

Then  drive  away  care, 

And  do  not  despair — 
Hope's  livery  wear,  and  all  will  come  right. 


SATIRES. 


OF  all  the  vices  now  in  vogue 
With  that  most  universal  rogue — 
The  World— the  one,  without  denying, 
Now  most  in  use  is  that  of  lying  ! 

'Tis  not  confined  to  words  alone — 
In  actions  it  is  often  shown : 
'Tis  written,  printed,  looked  and  sung, 
All  ages,  sexes,  folks,  among. 

'Tis  whisper'd  in  the  maiden's  ear, 
To  quell  suspicion  or  a  fear ; 
'Tis  sounded  in  the  pompous  phrase, 
When  men  would  dazzle  truth  in  blaze. 

'Tie  hawked  in  streets  from  morn  till  night- 
For  trade  'tis  never  out  of  sight, 
But  di'ops,  like  honey,  from  the  tongue, 
Indeed,  almost  of  every  one. 

'Tis  in  the  compliment,  the  smile, 
The  proffered  friendship,  all  the  while  : 
From  words  of  sweet  and  gentle  sound. 
The  serpent  coils  the  heart  around. 


94 


'Tis  in  the  cradle  ;  there  the  eye 
Of  infancy  is  taught  to  lie — 
Pretending  to  be  fast  asleep, 
Its  mother  by  its  side  to  keep. 

Old  Toby,  too,  with  angry  whine, 
Knows,  by  some  deep,  mysterious  sign, 
His  master  means  not  what  is  said — 
When  shown  the  door,  he  seeks  the  bed. 

But  of  all  lying,  I  declare, 
The  worst,  and  almost  everywhere, 
Is  that  about  our  neighbor's  fame, 
Her  character,  or  his  good  name. 

Oh,  Truth  !  thou  attribute  divine  ! 
May  thy  dear  essence  still  be  mine, 
To  guard  me  from  a  sin  so  crying, 
As  this  prevailing  one  of  lying  ! 


THE   ELECTIONEERING. 

ONE  pleasant  day,  on  mischief  bent, 
The  Whigs  came  down  to  Orient  ; 
By  Tip  and  Tyler  they  were  sent, 
For  them  electioneering,  O. 

With  pompous  pride,  behold  they  ride 
So  lovingly  all  side  by  side  ; 
They  hoped  our  councils  to  divide 
By  a  little  privateering,  O. 


95 


Arrived,  they  pat  each  Democrat — 
'Twas  Captain  This,  and  Colonel  That, 
And  Cousin  John,  and  Uncle  Nat, 
So  smilingly  and  jeering,  O. 

"  Come,  take  a  drink — or  will  you  go 
And  vote  for  Tip  and  Tyler  7    Lo ! 
The  times  are  very  dark,  you  know, 
And  cloudy,  and  want  clearing,  O  !" 

They  took  us  kindly  by  the  hand  ; 
With  manners  meek  and  bearing  bland. 
They  said,  "  The  ship  of  State  to  land 
Did  want  a  little  steering,  O  !" 

The  sturdy  Democrats  they  plied 
With  beer  and  brandy,  and  belied 
Van  Buren  and  his  measures  tried, 
Insulting  him,  and  swearing,  O." 

"  Come,  vote  with  us,"  they  said  ;  "  come,  do ; 
We're  Democrats  as  well  as  you ; 
Come,  vote  for  Tip  and  Tyler  too," 
They  whispered  quite  endearing,  O. 

And  then  they  sung  us  pretty  songs 
About  our  country's  thousand  wrongs ; 
These  Whigs,  they  have  delightful  lungs— 
But  they  have  lost  their  hearing,  O. 

The  ballot-box  they  gathered  round, 
They  questioned,  challenged — but  they  ground 
Their  teeth  like  d— 1's  when  they  found 
Our  little  band  appearing,  O. 


96 


True  as  the  soldier  to  his  gun. 
True  as  the  day-delighting  sun. 
True  to  his  country,  every  one, 
Nor  threat,  nor  challenge  fearing,  O. 

Oh  !  'twas  a  sight,  it  was  a  sin 
To  see  the  votes  go  rushing  in  ; 
To  see  the  Whigs  grow  lean  and  thin, 
And  look  so  lank,  and  learing,  O. 

"  What !  not  one  vote  for  Tip  !"  they  cried, 
"  Not  one  for  Tyler,  too,"  they  sighed, 
While  the  kind  Democrats,  they  tried 
To  comfort  them  by  cheering,  O. 

But  now  kind  Whigs  my  muse  I  rein, 
1  would  not  add  unto  your  pain, 
But  if  you  come  this  way  again, 
Don't  corne  electioneering,  O. 


OLD    TIMES. 

OH  !  for  the  times,  the  good  old  time*. 

And  for  the  blissful  spot, 
Where,  hid  among  green  orchard  trees, 

Uprose  our  little  cot ; 
And  for  the  days,  the  merry  days, 

And  for  the  evenings  bright, 
When,  in  the  moon's  enchanting  bUut;. 

Mh'th  reveled  with  delight . 


97 


When  falsehood  had  not  crossed  my  path, 

Nor  folly  nor  deceit, 
And  hate  or  enmity  or  wrath, 

Had  in  the  heart  a  seat ; 
When  people  met  each  other,  all 

With  soft  delicions  smiles, 
And  ere  the  heart  had  drank  the  gall. 

That  cankers  and  defiles. 

When  women  staid  at  home  and  spun 

The  yarn  that's  made  of  wool, 
And  not  the  gossip-tattling  one 

Of  the  malicious  school ; 
Or  sat  them  by  the  cradle's  side 

And  sung  a  merry  lay, 
Content  o'er  slumber  to  preside 

And  sing  its  lulaba. 

Oh  !  for  the  days,  the  happy  days, 

When  people  fed  the  poor, 
Nor  all  the  charity  bestowed, 

Crossed  to  a  distant  shore ; 
And  when  the  peddling  wight  was  rare, 

And  clergymen  were  few — 
And  those  old  Calvinists  did  wear 

Cocked  hats  above  their  queue  ; 

When  temperance  was  a  practice,  not 

A  theory  so  fine 
As  made  the  good  old  farmers  cut 

Down  every  tree  and  vine ; 
When  people  went  to  meeting,  strung 

Along  in  Indian  line. 


98 


And  decently  came  home  and  rung 
For  something  good  to  dine. 

Oh  !  for  the  nights,  the  merry  nights, 

When  dancing  was  in  vogue — 
And  when  it  was  the  sin  of  sights 

To  see  a  rake  or  rogue ; 
When  artless  love,  and  soft  caress, 

And  pleasure  undefiled, 
In  unsophisticated  dress 

Looked  on  the  scene  and  smiled. 

Oh  !  for  the  men,  the  good  old  men, 

Who  velvet  breeches  wore, 
And  for  the  sumptuous  living,  when 

They  open  kept  the  door ; 
And  for  the  good  old  women  too, 

Who  many  children  bore, 
Of  boys  to  plough,  and  girls  to  woo, 

Of  each  a  half  a  score. 

Oh !  for  the  shout,  the  merry  shout. 

Upon  the  harvest  day ; 
The  wrestling,  jumping,  merry  bout, 

Of  the  old-fashioned  way  ^ 
Kre  the  sly  sycophant  could  bite. 

Or  the  intriguing  tool, 
Or  men  had  played  the  parasite, 

Or  women  played  the  fool. 

Alas !  I  fear  those  times  are  passed, 
The  good  old  men,  and  all 

Their  virtues,  like  old  garments  cast 
Behind  the  garden  wall ; 


99 


And  that  a  race  have  risen  up, 
To  craven  and  to  crawl, 

The  hypocrite  and  prating  fop, 
Hyena,  and  jackal. 


How  poor  a  thing  is  human  life, 
Without  a  sweet-heart  or  a  wife, 
Without  a  little  care  and  strife, 

To  keep  the  blood  in  motion  ; 
To  live  a  bachelor,  and  hear 
No  music  from  another  sphere, 
As  "  you  stayed  late  last  night,  my  dear" — 

Is  quite  a  foolish  notion. 

How  pleasant,  when  our  labor's  o'er, 
To  meet  a  lady  at  the  door, 
Just  going  to  a  dandy  store, 

All  smiles,  perfume  and  honey ; 
And  then  to  hear  the  old  request, 
Repeated  like  a  witty  jest, 
(Faith !  don't  you  think  that  husband  blest  1) 

"  I  want  a  little  mo-n-ey." 

When  dosing  in  a  precious  nap, 
Dreaming  of  some  escaped  mishap, 
How  sweet  to  have  a  social  rap, 

With  "  up  you  wicked  sinner  ;" 
And  then  a  curtain  lecture,  thus — 
"  Oh  !  Mr.  Tompkins,  where's  your  purse  7 
Is  this  the  way  you're  serving  us  1 

We've  nothing  yet  for  dinner  !" 


100 


Oh  !  how  delicious  is  the  bold 
Haranguing  of  a  finished  scold  ! 
And  she  a  wife,  ugly  and  old  ! 

To  him  compelled  to  hear  it, 
No  sound  of  harpsichord  or  lute, 
Bagpipe,  guitar,  bass-drum,  or  flute — 
Vesuvius,  y£tna,  Alps  to  boot — 

Can  come  the  touches  near  it ! 

A  woman's  tongue  is  music  still- 
So  is  the  clapper  of  a  mill ; 
And  then  her  contradicted  will 

Is  balm  and  consolation  ! 
Ye  happy  husbands,  who  obey 
Your  wives,  who  always  have  their  way, 
Oh !  how  I  envy  you  each  day 

Of  sweet  humiliation  ! 

Could  1  outlive  a  thousand  years, 
Not  one  I'd  live  without  the  shears, 
Or  broomstick,  round  about  my  ears, 

To  keep  the  blood  in  motion  ; 
To  live  a  bachelor,  and  be 
Exempt  from  all  life's  witchery, 
A  scolding,  hissing,  kissing— she, 

Is  all  a  foolish  notion. 


101 


THE    DOG   IN   THE    MANGER. 

A  DOG  once  in  a  manger  lay, 
A  growling  cur,  among  the  hay, 
And  thus  unto  the  ox  he  spoke, 
The  patient  ox  that  bore  the  yoke  :— 
"  So,  Mr.  Ox,  you've  come  again 
To  eat  your  hay  and  oats  and  grain  ; 
You  shall  not  eat,  and  will  not  I, 
But  in  this  manger  will  I  lie. 

"  I  cannot  eat  this  straw,  I  know, 
'Tis  not  unto  my  taste,  and  so, 
Out  of  pure  malice,  I  declare, 
1  will  not  eat,  nor  shall  you  dare  ; 
1  am  the  fittest  to  give  law, 
Unto  the  universal  maw ; 
From  Lapland's  sea-horse  to  the  mole, 
My  taste  is  standard  for  the  whole 

"What  right  have  oxen,  sure,  to  chose 
What  they  may  eat,  or  what  refuse ; 
How  can  such  stupid  creatures  know 
What  in  their  stomachs  to  bestow  ? 
All  wisdom's  mine,  and  1  propose, 
All  oxen  should  their  jaws  foreclose  ; 
Your  teeth  were  made  for  artist's  blocks, 
And  not  for  eating,  Mr.  Ox." 

The  gentle  ox,  unused  to  slang, 
Listened  to  this  absurd  harangue, 
And  longer  would  the  insult  bore, 
But  hunger  would  accept  no  more ; 


102 


And  so  he  took  him  on  his  horn, 
And  tossed  him  into  a  field  of  corn, 
And  gnashing  and  growling,  there  he  lay, 
While  the  merry  ox  was  eating  hay. 

There  are  some  men,  and  women  too, 
That  in  the  manger  lurk,  and  who 
Afiect  all  others  to  dispise, 
Who  do  not  see  with  their  good  eyes — 
Who  do  not  taste  with  their  sweet  tongues, 
And  preach  with  their  prophetic  lungs  ; 
Such  shallow  brats,  who  feign  would  rule, 
Should  all  be  whipped,  and  sent  to  school, 
To  learn  their  own  dear  faults  to  scan, 
Ere  they  would  teach  their  fellow-man. 


THE    MAN    ON    THE    FENCE. 

A  MAN  on  the  fence  is  a  public  expense, 
A  thing  without  virtue,  or  honor,  or  sense, 
With  his  head  on  a  pivot,  to  turn  every  side, 
And  his  legs  like  a  balance,  to  keep  him  astride. 

He  swims  with  the  current,  but  always  his  nose 
Is  turned  where  the  wind  most  emphatic'ly  blows  ; 
He  is  always  a  going,  just  like  a  wind-mill, 
But  in  the  same  spot  is  located  still. 

Give  me  Fed,  give  me  Bucktail,  or  Whig  in  his  glory, 
King,  Commons,  Autocrat,  Democrat,  Tory  ; 
But  a  man  on  the  fence,  let  me  banish  him  hence, 
He's  a  drain  to  my  purse,  and  a  useless  expense. 


103 


He  flatters  one  side,  then  calls  'tother  the  best, 
Yet  its  just  all,  you  see,  but  to  feather  his  nest ; 
With  a  lie  on  his  lip,  and  deceit  on  his  tongue, 
He  is  false  to  all  parties,  and  faithful  to  none. 

With  ears  like  a  donkey,  or  rabbit,  or  hare, 
One  up,  and  one  down,  and  one  everywhere, 
He  listens  to  catch  the  first  sound  of  success, 
But  he  keeps  him  his  fence,  I  think,  nevertheless. 

'Tis  his  only  support,  and,  although  he  may  leaii 

On  this  side,  or  that  side,  he'll  never,  I  ween, 

Get  off  of  his  railing,  for  should  he  do  so, 

His  own  strength  would  fail  him,  and  down  he  would  go. 


THE    INFORMER. 

THE  base  informer,  night  and  day, 

Lurks  in  each  alley,  to  betray 

Worth,  truth,  and  honor — casting  sly 

Looks  from  each  corner  of  his  eye ; 

Listens  and  whispers,  nods  and  Avinks, 

And  peeps  through  key-holes,  cracks  and  chinks  ; 

Hides  under  ditches,  hedges,  fences, 

To  pilfer  private  conferences. 

He  creeps,  where  pure  affections  flow, 
Like  a  vile  reptile  over  snow, 
Spitting  his  venom,  and  his  gall, 
Where  he  can  worm  himself  and  crawl ; 


104  SATIRES. 

Or  like  a  spider  in  his  lair, 
Watching  his  victim  to  ensnare. 
'Till  caught  within  his  slimy  meshes. 
He  tears  him  with  his  harpy  tushes. 

The  base  informer  is  a  spy, 
A  slanderer,  traitor,  tattler,  lie — 
A  secret  foe,  a  treacherous  friend, 
A  vile  traducer,  and  a  fiend — 
Stool-pigeon,  go-between,  and  knave, 
Perfidious  hypocrite,  and  slave  ; 
With  everybody's  business  meddling, 
And  lies  and  defamation  peddling. 

The  base  informer  is,  at  best, 
A  plague,  a  pestilence,  and  pest ; — 
A  harpy,  hanging  on  to  fame — 
A  buzzard,  lighting  on  good  name  ; 
A  moral  upas,  from  whose  breath 
Flies  putrefaction,  social  death — 
Carbuncle,  incubus,  excressence, 
And  of  all  vices  mean,  the  essence. 

The  base  informer  whines  and  drawls, 
Pretending  piety,  and  crawls 
Into  communion,  to  create 
Malice,  suspicion,  envy,  hate, 
Jealousy,  jargon,  wrangling,  spite, 
All  peace  and  harmony  to  blight — 
To  make  what  Nature  would  embellish 
A  pandemonium,  black  and  h — h. 


105 


THE    OFFICE-SEEKER. 

THERE  is  a  man  about  the  town, 

Before  i  lay  my  pencil  down, 

I  will  describe  unto  his  face, 

Who  does  all  manhood  quite  disgrace  ; 

It  is  the  wishy-washy  speaker — 

The  lazy,  idle  office-seeker. 

The  strolling,  babbling  blockhead  goos 
Wherever  he  can  thrust  his  nose. 
To  vend  the  contents  of  his  skull, 
And  still  more  empty  ones  to  gull ; 
He  steals  his  words  from  other's  speeches ; 
It  means  but  give,  like  other  leeches. 

To  get  an  office  is  his  aim  ; 
For  this  he  lives  a  life  of  shame  ; 
For  this  he  scorns  each  noble  trait 
That  makes  man  truly  wise  or  great : 
Worthless  and  vile,  he  takes  his  station 
With  falsehood  and  dissimulation. 

He  ranges,  and  he  changes  sides 

Almost  as  often  as  the  tides  ; 

And  watches,  with  the  keenest  glance, 

The  eccentricities  of  chance, 

Upon  some  accidental  hobbj1", 

To  elevate  himself — the  booby  ! 

Whining  and  pining,  round  he  strolls, 
To  pluck  the  geese  and  stuff  the  gulls  : 


106 


He  apes  the  great,  and  looks  the  wise 
And  swells  to  a  prodigious  size : 
He  fawns  and  licks,  like  any  spaniel, 
Alike  a  Zany  or  a  Daniel. 

Himself  a  tarue  and  supple  tool, 
With  others  still  he  plays  the  fool ; 
The  vilest  reptile  that  can  crawl, 
A  puppy  and  a  plague  to  all, 
Without  the  shadow  of  a  principle, 
To  every  sense  of  shame  invincible. 


Is  IT  not  strange,  that  men  can  go 
ITntc  some  puhlic  place,  and  throw 

Their  precious  hour  away, 
And  in  their  dull,  inglorious  ease, 
Their  taste  for  idle  twaddle  please, 

Like  children  at  their  play  1 

Have  they  no  duties  to  perform — 
No  hearts  neglected,  kind  and  warm, 

Their  industry  demands ; 
No  children,  or  no  aged  sires, 
That  solace  or  that  care  requires, 

Or  labor,  from  their  hands  1 

Have  they  no  benefits  received 
From  friendship's  offering — that  grieved 
Their  suffering  to  see  1 


107 


Ah !  where  no  inward  feelings  burn, 
i^uch  debts  of  friendship  to  return, 
How  steeled  such  hearts  must  be ! 

Have  they  no  honor,  pride,  or  shame  1 
No  longing  for  an  honest  name 

Among  their  fellow-men  1 
Oh !  if  they  have,  and  have  they  may, 
For  all  I've  said,  or  have  to  say, 

Then  let  them  list  my  pen. 

Though  small  the  talent  they  possess, 
Or  more  in  magnitude  or  less, 

There's  something  to  be  done 
For  every  creature,  great  or  small, 
Man,  brute,  or  insect — aye,  for  all 

Beneath  the  watchful  sun  ; 

Much  for  our  country,  much  for  those 
Beneath  the  lash  of  human  woes, 

And  for  the  poor  man's  right : 
Much  for  the  jewel  unrefined, 
Hid  in  the  infant's  sleeping  mind, 

To  bring  it  to  the  light. 

Then  go,  my  fellow-sluggard,  go ; 

Dive  deep  the  spade,  lift  high  the  hoe- 
Use  what  to  thee  is  given  ; 

Thy  slothful  couch  no  longer  woo, 

But  in  thy  generation  do 

Something  for  earth  or — Heaven. 


108 


MY    WIFE,   SHE    LOVES    HER    LOOKING-GLASS. 

On  !  J  am  weary  of  iny  life — 

I've  got  a  fashionable  wife  ! 

My  horse  is  always  on  the  go, 

My  credit  running  to  and  fro. 

Peddlers  and  painters,  puppies,  beaux, 

Distract  my  ears,  offend  my  nose. 

Oh  !  I  am  miserable  !    Alas  ! 

My  wife  she  loves  her  looking-glass  ! 

My  wife  is  beautiful  to  see — 
Small  round  the  middle,  like  a  bee  ; 
Pale,  like  the  lily  ;  round  her  eyes  : 
Soft  on  her  cheek  the  damask  lies  ; 
She  steps  upon  the  earth  as  tho' 
It  were  not  fit  to  meet  her  toe — 
But  all  her  gracefulness  must  pass 
Three  hours  before  the  looking-glass. 

1  don't  allow  myself  to  curse ; 

But  oh  !  my  poor,  my  empty  purse  ! 

When  all  its  treasure  disappears, 

I  often  fill  it  with  my  tears. 

My  wife  looks  on  and  laughs  and  sneers, 

And  calls  me  all  her  pretty  dears, 

Then  gently  slaps  me  on  the  face, 

And  flies  unto  her  looking-glass. 

Oh  !  I  am  weary  of  my  days, 

She  has  such  strange  provoking  ways  ; 


109 


My  company  she  ever  shuns, 

Except  to  torture  me  with  duns  ; 

1  scarcely  ever  get  a  smile, 

Unless  I  pay  for  it  the  while  ; 

She  cries,  "  Come  pony  down  the  brass," 

Then  trips  unto  her  looking-glass. 

She  hates  her  hroom — "  'twill  raise  a  dust ; 

*  The  pot  will  hlack" — so  lets  it  rust ; 
My  buttons  off — "  They're  vulgar  things ;" 
My  elbows  out — she  laughs  and  sings, 

"  Vd  be  a  butterfly" — I  wish 
She  was,  or  else  some  other  fish — 
She  burns  the  meat,  or  spoils  the  sauce, 
Because  she  loves  her  looking-glass. 

Must  I  be  passive,  and  repine 

Forever  at  this  lot  of  mine, 

And  sacrifice  my  life,  and  all 

My  happiness,  to  dress  a  doll  1 

No,  blast  my  picture,  if  I  do  ! 

I'll  smash  the  looking-glass  in  two  ! 

I'll  not  be  treated  like  an  ass — 

So,  wife,  here  goes  your  looking-glass. 


THE    HYPOCRITE. 

YE  harping,  carping  hypocrites, 
Who  are  such  pious  folks  by  fits, 
I  doubt  a  satire  seldom  bits 

Your  holy  brood. 
10 


110 


Ye  are  so  pure,  without  a  stain, 
So  richly  clad,  so  full  of  gain, 
'Tis  thought  presumption,  to  arraign 
Your  brotherhood. 

To  drag  you  from  your  secret  den 
Of  infamy,  that  honest  men 
May  see  you  as  you  are,  and  ken 

You  eyerywhere ; 

To  draw  the  curtain,  where  you  lurk, 
To  show  them  all  your  dirty  work, 
To  be  the  painter,  and  the  clerk, 

My  pen  shall  dare. 

Keader,  the  hypocrite — I  crave 
Your  pardon — is  a  thorough  knave — 
The  passions'  most  obsequious  slave, 

In  every  sense  5 

He  prays — but  always  in  a  crowd ; 
He  worships — most  devoutly  loud ; 
With  holiness  ho  seemt  endowed — 

'Tis  all  pretence. 

He  preaches  charity  to  man, 
Yet  pockets  every  cent  he  can- 
By  every  artifice  and  plan, 

His  purse  is  filled— 

With  widow's  groans,  and  orphan's  cries 
With  hunger's  raving  melodies, 
With  pain,  and  labor's  agonies, 

In  tears  distilled. 


Ill 


Smooth  is  his  speech,  and  smooth  his  chin; 

A  whited  sepulchre  of  sin  ; 

A  saint  without — the  fiend  within 

He  keeps  concealed ; 
The  wolfish  heart,  that  bids  him  prey 
On  every  victim  in  his  way, 
Snugly  within  his  sordid  clay, 

Lies  unrevealed. 

He  steels  his  heart  against  the  poor, 
The  heggar  starves  before  his  door  ; 
At  church,  he  gives  three  cents,  or  four, 

To  get  the  name 
Of  being  liberal  and  good  ; 
Of  being  righteous  understood, 
By  brother  and  by  sisterhood — 

'Tis  but  his  game. 

His  plans  are  circumspectly  laid, 
Deception  is  hie  stock  in  trade, 
His  part  is  admirably  played  ; 

Body  and  soul, 
Unto  his  master-passion  bend, 
Like  slaves  unto  a  human  fiend, 
While  sordid  self  looks  to  the  end, 

And  grasps  the  whole. 

He  preaches  morals,  but  'tis  plain 
Self  writes  the  lecture  on  his  brain, 
Some  poor  destinction  to  obtain, 

Or  something  worse  ; 
Perchance  to  see  what  can  be  made, 
He  hawks  his  morals  for  a  trade, 


112 


As  peddlers  do  their  silk  and  braid, 
To  fill  his  purse. 

Does  there  no  retribution  fell — 

No  burning,  seething,  scorching  h — 1, 

Within  his  stony  bosom  dwell, 

(I  fain  would  know,) 
To  punish  such  unfeeling  pride, 
And  God's  own  image  so  belied, 
Defaced,  disfigured,  and  destroyed  1 

It  must  be  so. 


THE    CURTAIN    LECTURE. 

OF  all  the  fiends  of  haggard  fate, 
A  curtain  lecture  most  1  hate ; 
It  comes  upon  us  unprepared, 
Asleep,  unconscious,  off  our  guard — 
Draw  me  a  tooth,  my  jaw-bone  fracture, 
But  take  away  a  curtain  lecture. 

When  in  the  arms  of  rest  reposing, 
When  sweetly  dreaming,  gently  dozing, 
Rap,  comes  a  blow  upon  your  pate — 
Perchance  for  staying  out  so  late  ; 
And  then  your  dear  begins  to  hector, 
And  harrow  with  a  curtain  lecture. 

Upon  an  empty  stomach,  cruel — 
Before  you've  took  your  water-gruel, 


113 


Tea,  coffee,  bitters,  pie,  or  apple, 
To  give  you  strength  with  her  to  grapple- 
She  rises  like  a  boa-constrictor, 
And  darts  her  tongue,  and  spits  her  lecture. 

I'll  fight  a  ghost,  or  face  a  demon, 
A  bear,  or  tiger,  brute  or  human ; 
But  come  to  claw  it  with  a  woman, 
Iv'e  not  sufficient  of  the  Roman ; 
I'll  coatless  ran,  or  else  eject  her, 
Before  I'll  go  a  curtain  lecture. 

I  met  a  friend  this  morning,  early, 

Bare-headed,  frenzied,  frightened  fairly  ; 
'*  Oh !  why  this  haste,  my  worthy  crony," 

Quoth  I,  "  Is  it  for  love,  or  money  V 
"  Ah  no,"  he  cried,  "  my  benefactor, 

I'm  fleeing  from  a  curtain  lecture." 

To  fight  a  duel  is  a  trifle, 

With  sword  or  pistol,  knife  or  rifle ; 

To  eat  a  horse,  or  swallow  fire, 

Is  common  hocus  pocus,  Squire  ; 

But  heaven  help  a  man's  digester, 

Whose  stomach  bears  a  curtain  lecture. 

Oh !  spare  us,  ladies,  in  the  morning, 
Or  give  us  but  a  little  warning, 
Or  something  on  our  stomachs  warming, 
Before  you  do  commence  your  storming  ; 
Then,  if  a  wife,  we  will  respect  her, 
And  calmly  take  her  curtain  lecture, 
10* 


114 


THE   PRESIDENTIAL   ELECTION. 

WHAT'S  the  matter  with  the  nation, 
To  be  in  such  a  flusteration — 
So  much  noise  and  interjection  1 
I  wish  my  soul  'twas  after  election. 
"  Come  this  way,  sir,  go  that  way,  sir, 
Come  to-night,  and  with  me  stay,  sir — " 
What  with  Tip,  Van  Buren,  Jackson, 
I'm  sure  I  shall  go  to  distraction. 

Some  their  business  are  forsaking, 
Some  are  shouting,  some  speech-making; 
For  such  things  I  have  no  notion, 
Thus  to  be  in  perpetual  motion ; 
Some  are  cheering,  some  are  sneering, 
Great  and  small  are  electioneering — 
What  with  Tip,  Van  Buren,  Jackson, 
I'm  sure  I  shall  go  to  distraction. 

Some  are  writing,  some  are  speaking, 
Some  ride  post  on  office-seeking. 
Some  look  blue,  and  some  look  blackish, 
Some  look  rakish,  some  opakish. 
JSome  are  pulling,  some  are  hauling, 
Some  are  puffing,  blowing,  brawling — 
What  with  Tip,  Van  Buren,  Jackson, 
I'm  sure  I  shall  go  to  distraction. 

Every  faction  seems  in  action, 
Every  grade,  sex,  and  complexion — 
Lawyers,  doctors,  judges,  fudges— 
To  the  great  convention  trudges ; 


115 


Some  in  squads,  and  some  in  masses, 
Horses,  oxen,  mules,  jackasses — 
What  with  Tip,  Van  Buren,  Jackson, 
I'm  sure  I  shall  go  to  distraction. 

Whigs,  and  democrats,  and  tories, 
Ladies,  priests,  all  telling  stories ; 
Regimental  rags,  and  rummies, 
Cider  barrels,  talkers,  dummies, 
All  appear  in  bobalation, 
To  my  sorrow  and  vexation — 
What  with  Tip,  Van  Buren,  Jackson, 
I'm  sure  I  shall  go  to  distraction. 

Is  this  precious  noise,  I  wonder, 

To  bring  the  dear  people  under 

Some  huge  paw,  or  legal  fetter, 

To  make  them  worse,  or  make  them  better  1 

I  can  tell  the  cause,  I  guess,  sir, 

But  'twould  give  me  great  distress,  sir — 

What  with  Tip,  Van  Buren,  Jackson, 

I'm  sure  I  shall  go  to  distraction. 


SELFISHNESS. 

THERE  is  a  class  of  people  born, 
I  would  hold  up  to  public  scorn, 
That  they  who  deign  to  read  my  verse, 
May  shun  their  character  and  curse  ; 
May  put  their  shoulders  to  the  wheel 
To  teach  the  hardened  wretch  to  feel 


116 


For  others,  but  Ms  own  descendants, 
His  family,  or  else  dependents. 

Heartless  and  lifeless,  but  for  pelf— 
The  God  they  worship,  still  is  Self; 
Self  rules,  contaminates  the  whole, 
Contracts  the  form,  congeals  the  soul — 
Honor  and  conscience,  all  are  sold, 
Victims  unto  the  love  of  gold, 
Their  object  all  mankind  to  gammon, 
For  their  idolatry  of  Mammon. 

You'll  know  them  when  you  see  them  by 
Their  sallow  cheek,  and  leaden  eye, 
Their  skinny  hands,  their  bony  limb, 
Their  form  all  ghastly — ghostly  slim  ; 
Like  some  fell  spirit,  fed  with  bile, 
They  only  grin,  they  never  smile  ; 
They  eat  by  ounces,  sleep  but  little — 
They  can't  afford  nor  time  nor  victual. 

They  let  their  best  affections  rust, 

They  grind  the  poor  into  the,.dust ; 

They  shave  and  gouge,  and  pluck  and  claw, 

Green  Jonathans  and  Paddy  raw ; 

No  art  too  mean,  no  trick  too  low, 

If  they  but  make  a  cent  or  so. 

They  keep  their  pensions  and  their  places, 

Because  they  dress  in  lawns  and  laces. 

Rapine,  that's  legal  theft  in  vogue, 
With  these  they  love  to  play  the  rogue, 


117 


Because  they  help  them  to  a  face, 

And  shield  them  from  deserved  disgrace  ; 

Some  little  reputation's  meet, 

To  help  them  carry  out  the  cheat — 

Thus,  when  the  wronged  would  put  the  lash  on, 

They  steal  by  law,  cheat  in  the  fashion. 

They  rob  the  halter  of  its  due, 
They  balk  the  Judge  and  Jury  too, 
And  yet  they  do  it  all  so  civil — 
Were  he  a  man,  they'd  cheat  the  devil ; 
Not  that  I  deem  them  superhuman, 
For  they  were  born  like  me  of  woman, 
But  they  have  fallen  from  their  nature, 
God's  image,  to  an  abject  creature. 

Is  there  no  help  7  alas !  there's  none  ! 
Self  turns  the  human  heart  to  stone  ; 
Steel' d  avarice  the  passions  guide, 
'Till  the  whole  man  is  petrified. 
Ah  !  why  this  human  sacrifice 
Of  mortal  man  before  he  dies, 
His  heart,  his  best  affections,  wasted  ; 
His  noble  nature,  crushed  and  blasted  1 


BACKBITING. 

THERE  is  a  madness,  not  canine, 
It  never  was,  nor  shall  be  mine, 

If  I  can  help  it ; 

'Tis  they  who  've  lost  their  shame  and  sense, 
Who  breathe  this  moral  pestilence, 


118 


That  nightly  yelp  it, 
That  in  this  present  hasty  writing, 
I  shall  denominate  Backbiting. 

This  fair  warm  weather  'tis  the  worst, 
This  fell  disease,  and  most  accurst — 

It  bites  the  keenest ; 
The  rabid  wretches  crowd  the  way, 
And  froth  and  sputter  all  they  say, 

In  terms  the  meanest ; 
It  is  too  gross  for  my  inditing, 
This  frothy,  Billingsgate  Backbiting. 

You'll  know  them  by  their  restless  eye, 
Seeking  some  victim  to  espy — 

Their  rapid  glances ; 
Their  listening  attitude ;  their  form 
Bent  forward,  creeping  like  a  worm, 

Looking  for  chances, 
To  gratify  their  rage  for  blighting 
Fair  character,  by  their  Backbiting. 

Their  snake-like  visage,  sharp  and  long, 
Protruding  teeth,  and  viper" tongue, 

Always  in  motion ; 
Their  panther  step,  and  vulture  leer, 
Their  wild-goose  neck,  and  jack-ass  ear, 

And  words  an  ocean — 
Like  buzzards  everywhere  alighting, 
To  pick  up  filth  for  their  Backbiting. 

They  go,  to  gratify  their  hate, 
Where  honest  people  congregate, 


119 


In  public  places ; 

They  dress  their  features  in  disguise, 
And  fill  their  mouths  with  pleasant  lies — 

Smiles  on  their  faces ; 

Their  friendships  they  are  always  plighting, 
To  seek  occasion  for  Backbiting. 

Sometimes  they  undertake  to  preach — 
Sometimes  they  undertake  to  teach 

Their  fellow  creatures ; 
Woe  be  unto  the  public  peace, 
The  healthy  happiness  and  ease, 

Where  they  are  teachers ; 
They'll  set  a  paradise  to  fighting, 
By  slander,  libel,  and  backbiting. 

Now,  reader,  whosoe'er  you  be, 
Turn  from  the  rabid  wretch  and  flee 

The  cursed  connection — 
Pandora's  box,  Medusa's  head, 
Contained  less  horrors  dire  and  dread 

Than  this  infection— 
That  goes  about  the  world  delighting 
In  fiendish,  frenzied,  fell  Backbiting. 


THE  FROG  AND  THE  OX. 

A  Story  for  Children,  grown  or  otherwise,  by  Esop. 
COME,  little  men,  and  hear  me  tell 
A  story  of  as  great  a  swell 
As  ever  tried,  since  Adam  fell, 
His  fellow  creatures  to  excel. 


120  SATIRES. 

One  day  it  happened  that  a  Frog, 
That  lived  within  a  hollow  log, 
Unknown,  and  happily  incog, 
Saw  a  great  Ox  hard  by  him  jog. 

Previous  to  that  unblest  event, 
The  Frog  had  always  been  content, 
And  hopped  about  and  came  and  went, 
Where'er  his  inclination  bent. 

But  now  a  passion — "'tis  the  trail 
Of  many— seized  him  to  be  great ; 
He  wished  his  body  to  inflate 
So  as  to  reach  the  Ox's  rate. 

Straightway  he  'gan  to  puff  and  blow — 
A  Frog  can  swell  himself  you  know, 
Unto  a  very  stately  show, 
In  his  own  estimation so 

He  thought  himself ;  his  mates,  amazed, 
Upon  the  operation  gazed ; 
Some  sneered,  while  others  cheers  raised — 
Some  bowed  and  flattered,  puffed  and  praised. 

All  this  our  hero  did  despise, 
And  still  increased  himself  in  size  ; 
It  pained  him  much,  but  yet  his  eyes, 
Beheld  the  Ox — again  he  tries. 

And  bursted !  in  a  moment  goes, 
Head,  arms,  and  hands,  and  eyes  and  nose  ; 
But  where  his  poor  remains  repose, 
Nobody  cares,  Frog's  friends  or  foes. 


SATIRES.  121 

Now  children,  let  us,  you  and  I, 
No  such  experimenting  try, 
As  with  great  oxen  thus  to  vie, 
And  Frog- like  burst  ourselves  and  die. 


NUMBER   ONE. 

WHERE  are  those  gallant  men  of  old, 
Of  whom  we've  heard  such  legends  told ; 
Those  high-souled,  patriotic  men, 
Their  like  we  ne'er  shall  see  again  ; 
Those  glorious  fav'rites  of  a  world, 
Who  freedom's  banner  once  unfurled— 
Who  made  their  country's  cause  their  own, 
Without  a  thought  for  No.  1 1 

They've  gone,  and  left  their  trophies  here, 
To  them  so  glorious  and  so  dear ; 
A  proved  and  sacred  legacy, 
For  us  its  guardians  to  be, 
That  we  might  share  their  matchless  fame- 
But  while  I  write  I  blush  with  shame, 
To  hear  each  base,  degenerate  son, 
Cry  "  We'll  take  care  of  No.  1. 

ic  I  care  not  be  the  country  sold, 
But  give  me  wealth — but  give  me  gold — 
And  fame  may  blow  until  he  burst, 
But  not  for  me — I'm  for  the  dust ; 
I'll  play  the  parasite,  and  cheat 
My  country  with  my  smooth  deceit 
11 


122 


And  bow  and  cringe,  and  cringe  and  fawn, 
Lo  !  I  take  care  of  No.  1." 

A  haggling,  straggling,  snakish,  rude, 

And  calculating  multitude 

Of  spurious,  sentimental  things — 

Called  men — stuck  o'er  with  rings  and  strings, 

Have  risen  up,  and  took  the  place 

Of  that  all-glorious  gallant  race, 

No  longer  known— whose  mawkish  tone, 

Is  still  take  care  of  No.  1. 

They  crowd  the  shambles  o'er  the  earth, 
Making  for  foreign  critics  mirth, 
To  see  them  sacrifice  for  wealth, 
Fame,  honor,  happiness  and  health  ; 
Their  grov'ling  souls  and  venal  creed, 
In  every  lineament  I  read — 
Features  of  lead  and  hearts  of  stono, 
Declare  their  idol — No.  1. 

Shades  of  a  Franklin  and  Rousseau, 
Runs  patriotism's  ebb  so  low  1 
Has  all  the  genius  of  an  age, 
The  brightest  on  the  historic  page, 
That  won  our  birthright  and  our  soil, 
Become  of  Avarice  the  spoil  1 
Forbid  it  noble  spirits  flown, 
And  perish  rather — No.  1. 

A  country  free ! — who  would  prefer 
A  narrow  selfishness  to  her  ; 
And  for  a  sordid  thirst  for  gain, 
The  escutcheon  of  his  fathers  stain  1 


123 


Let  him  a  paper  dollar  grow 
Of  some  old  broken  bank,  and  blow 
Away— where  Malapar*  hath  blown, 
And  there  take  care  of  No.  1. 


ANCIENTS  AND  MODERNS — A  COMPARISON. 

IT  is  said,  each  generation 

Groweth  wiser  than  the  last, 
And  that  by  a  sure  gradation, 

Man  improveth  on  the  past. 

'Tis  a  fair  deceit  as  ever 

Human  vanity  conceived, 
And  subscribe  to  it,  I'll  never, 

While  by  me  'tis  unbelieved. 

See  her  monuments  of  glory, 
Scattered  round  fair  Asia's  land  ; 

Read,  and  marvel  at  her  story, 
So  conspicuously  grand. 

Bring  a  Phidias  and  a  Solon, 

Or  Praxiteles  to  me, 
And  I'll  show  how  men  have  fallen 

From  their  glorious  ancestry. 


*  Eugene  Malapar,  Cashier  of  the  sham  Marble  Manufacturing 
Bank,  now  keeps  a  cellar  at  the  Five  Points  in  conjunction  with  a 
negro  laundress. 


124 


Every  broken  arch  and  column, 

By  th'  eternal  ivy  bound, 
Speaks  a  language  sad  and  solemn, 

"  We  were  by  immortals  crowned." 

Read  of  Babylon,  her  armies, 

And  her  gardens  hung  in  air, 
And  the  conquering  Semiramis  — 

What  with  such  can  now  compare  7 

Hear  their  orators  declaiming, 

In  their  crowded  Capitol, 
And  ten  thousand  hearts  inflaming, 

By  the  magic  of  their  call. 

Sons  of  Anak,  and  Goliahs, 
Gogs  and  Magogs,  we  have  none  ; 

We  have  dwindled  from  our  sires, 
Both  in  muscle  and  in  bone. 

Once  the  Mammoth  and  Mastodon, 
Ranged  the  mountains  and  the  plains  ; 

How  it  doth  the  senses  sadden, 
To  contemplate  their  remains. 

For  it  teaches  we  have  fallen 

From  the  races  gone  before, 
And  degeneracy  stolen 

All  the  beautiful  of  yore. 

I  could  even  bring  their  Ladies, 
With  our  moderns  to  compare, 

But  I'd  soon  be  found  in  Hades 
Should  I  meddle  with  the  Fair. 


125 


But,  I'm  sure,  this  generation, 
Is  the  lowest  of  the  low, 

And,  that  by  a  sure  gradation, 
Men  shall  soon  to  pigmies  grow. 


THE  FIRST  VIOLET — A  WISH. 

'TWAS  a  bandied  gossip,  when  I  was  boy, 

That  the  flower  first  beheld  in  the  Spring, 
Did  a  favorite  wish  then  the  moment  employ, 

Its  fulfilment  the  Season  would  bring. 

Tester-morn,  as  I  walked,  half  concealed  from  my  view, 

A  vi'let,  the  first  I  had  seen, 
Unfolded  its  vestments,  empearled  in  the  dew, 

All  fresh  in  its  bower  of  green. 

And  straightway  I  thought  of  the  sweetest  of  hours, 

When  we  played  on  the  rivulet's  brink, 
And  wished,  as  we  plucked  from  the  bank  the  young  flowers, 

So  I  wished,  but  for  what  do  you  think  1 

I  wished  not  for  wealth,  for  it  bringeth  but  care, 

Go  mammon,  I  said,  not  to  thee 
Will  I  vote  this  young  beauty,  so  modest  and  fair, 

For  all  thou  canst  furnish  to  me. 

Nor  was  it  for  wisdom,  for  wisdom  is  vain, 

So  the  wise  king  of  Israel  said ; 
Nor  yet  was  it  glory,  nor  greatness,  the  twain 

Are  not  worth  a  scruple  of  lead. 
11* 


126 


Nor  for  office — no,  no,  for  that  is  the  path 

Beset  with  the  hissings  of  strife, 
With  the  venom  of  envy,  the  fury  of  wrath, 

To  destroy  all  the  sweetness  of  life. 

Nor  for  women  or  wine,  for  poor  Richard  declares, 
They  bring  poverty,  want,  and  distress, 

Tho'  I  cannot  conceive,  how  the  Ladies,  the  dears, 
Should  be  made  for  aught  else  but  to  bless. 

Nor  for  fame  did  I  wish — for  its  breath  I  disown 
From  this  age — and  may  Heaven  forbid — 

But  I  wished,  ere  the  year  should  expire,  to  be  shown 
To  a  man  truly  honest — I  did ! 


THE   STORY   OF    SOLOMON    KING  J 
Or,  a  Mirror  for  the  Abolitionists. 

SOME  time  in  the  last  century, 
As  dates  and  gossip  tales  agree, 
There  lived  a  man — though  hard  to  sing 
His  name — they  call  it  Solomon  King — 
And  also  story  down  hath  sent  us, 
That  he  was  hardly  compos  mentis. 

N  ow  Solomon's  brother  had  an  ass — 
Unlucky  as  it  came  to  pass — 
A  stupid,  dull,  and  dozy  thing, 
Which  had  the  love  of  Solomon  King  ; 
And  oft  at  night-fall  he  was  fain, 
To  steal  for  him  his  neighbor's  grain. 


127 


For  Solomon,  he  was  over-kind, 
One  clear  delusion  filled  his  mind, 
Like  certain  people  now  who  travail 
Some  knotty  question  to  unravel ; 
He  could  not  fathom  why  his  Dapple 
Fed  not  as  well  as  other  people. 

For  Solomon  thought,  as  people  do, 
Who  but  one  object  have  in  view  ; 
He  felt  his  motives  generous  were, 
For  other's  rights  too  blind  to  care ; 
He  thus  was  led,  by  wayward  fancies, 
Into  unpleasant  circumstances. 

So  Solomon  thought  the  day  until 
His  brother  sent  him  to  the  mill ; 
Now  Solomon  he  was  loth  to  ride, 
But  chose,  on  foot  his  ass  to  guide  ; 
'Twere  well  for  him,  as  matters  ended, 
Had  he  to  this  safe  step  attended. 

But  Solomon  deemed  it  was  not  fair, 
That  Dapple,  bags  of  wheat  should  bear, 
And  much  contrivance  had  bestowed, 
To  ease  him  of  his  weary  load ; 
But  Solomon  King,  was  never  famed 
For  wisdom,  though  so  wisely  named. 

Thus,  as  they  trudged  along  apace, 
A  light  appeared  in  Solomon's  face  ; 
Quoth  he,  "  By  gosh,  I  have  it  now" — 
Then  clapt  his  hand  upon  his  brow. 
Perchance  t'  assist  his  pregnant  brain, 
Which  long  in  embryo  thoughts  had  lain. 


128 


"I  have  it  now,"  quoth  he,  delighted, 
Then  with  the  bags  his  shoulders  freighted ; 

"  Now  Dap,  I  bear  the  bags,  you  see, 
And  you  shall  only  carry  me  ;" 
Thus  saying,  he  poor  Dapple  mounted — 
The  bags  he  now  no  longer  counted. 

The  water-mill  it  had  a  dam, 
Also  a  bridge — on  this  they  came  ; 
Two  bags,  and  Solomon  made  three — 
This  staggered  Dap's  philosophy ; 
He  reeled  beneath  the  triple  weight, 
While  Solomon  he  sat  elate. 

Thinking  his  shoulders  bore  the  load, 
Not  Dapple,  he  applied  the  goad  ; 
This  was  too  much,  th'  envenomed  nail 
Threw  Dapple's  feet  against  the  rail, 
And  bags,  and  ass,  and  Solomon, 
Into  a  miry  slough  were  thrown. 

Not  caring  there  himself  to  stick, 
Dapple  began  to  plunge  and  kick ; 
And  struggling,  with  disaster  dire, 
Our  hero  warred  with  kicks  and  mire  ; 
Splashing  and  floundering  in  the  mud, 
Covered  with  wounds,  and  filth,  and  blood. 

"  Curse  on  the  ass,"  aloud  he  cried, 
"  Once  my  delight,  my  joy,  my  pride; 
Oh !  never  will  I  mount  again 
Thy  murd'rous  back,  to  ease  thy  pain  ; 
A  brute  you  are,  a  jackass  be — 
Curse  on  the  ass,  oh  !  curse  on  thee  !" 


129 


Mow  reader,  whether  wise,  or  booby, 
Consider  ere  you  mount  a  hobby ; 
For  chances  ten  there  are  to  one, 
You're  worsely  served  than  Solomon  ; 
For  he,  with  Dap,  got  out  at  last, 
But  you  may  stick  forever  fast. 


THE   COMET.* 

AWAKE,  Dr.  Hodges,  you  stupid  old  quack, 
Don't  you  see  that  the  comet  is  now  on  its  track  7 
Why  don't  you  prepare  us  with  something  to  take, 
That  will  stand  fire,  and  water,  also  an  earthquake  1 

Awake,  you  old  drone,  nor  go  moping  about, 
To  physic  dyspepsia,  and  bandage  the  gout, 
When  the  whole  world,  in  Autumn,  is  destined  to  go 
To  the  regions  above,  or  the  regions  below. 

Away  with  your  blisters,  away  with  your  pills, 
Come  put  on  your  hat,  let  us  go  to  the  hills, 
For  the  plains  will  be  water,  the  forest  all  fire — 
Let  us  climb  up  the  hills,  since  we  can  get  no  higher. 

The  plough,  Mr.  Farmer,  you  might  as  well  stop, 

You  may  sow,  and  may  reap,  but  you'll  lose  all  your  crop, 

For  the  comet  will  come  in  a  terrible  pet, 

And  will  thrash  out  your  wheat,  and  your  barn  overset. 


*This  satire  was  composed  about  the  year  1832,  when  it  was  sup- 
posed by  some,  that  its  approach  would  cause  the  destruction  of 
the  earth. 


130 


Then  a  truce  to  your  toil,  and  a  truce  to  your  pain, 
For  to  labor  for  nought,  is  to  labor  in  vain ; 
Dig  a  hole  in  the  earth,  bid  your  cattle  adieu, 
When  the  comet  is  gone,  you  may  sprout  up  anew. 

The  sea  will  boil  over,  the  earth  it  will  crack ; 
The  sun  will  look  blue,  and  the  moon  will  look  black ; 
And  your  pipe,  my  Aunt  Susy,  a  hissing  will  make, 
And  its  stem  will  coil  up  like  a  horrible  snake. 

Young  ladies,  we  pity  your  terrible  plight, 
A  comet's  embraces  for  you  are  too  tight — 
Go  make  a  balloon  of  each  fathomless  sleeve, 
And  from  this  dull  earth  take  your  beautiful  leave. 

And  when  you  arrive  at  some  peace-loving  star, 
Proclaim,  through  the  heavens,  the  comet's  fell  war, 
And  send  us  a  fleet  of  their  star-rigged  batteaux, 
To  take  off  your  papas,  and  mammas,  and  beaux. 

Then  awake,  Dr.  Hodges,  you  stupid  old  quack, 
Don't  you  see  that  the  comet  is  just  at  your  back  7 
Arouse  and  prepare  us  with  something  to  take, 
That  will  stand  fire,  and  water,  also  an  earthquake. 


CHEATING   UNCLE    SAM. 

THE  wicked  and  vile,  are  all  the  while 
Endeavoring  to  make  the  public  their  spoil, 

By  every  method  they  can  ; 
Defaulter  and  thief  are  taking  their  leave, 
With  Uncle  Sam  in  their  pocket  or  sleeve — 

Oh  !  give  us  an  honest  man. 


131 


There's  none  to  trust  with  glittering  dust, 
For  all  alike  appear  to  be  cursed, 

With  an  ever  itching  palm ; 
They  break  their  troth,  and  break  their  oath — 
They  care  not  a  fig  for  one  nor  both, 

Nor  for  their  country  a  d — n. 

The  accomplished  rogue  is  all  in  vogue, 
Whom  'twould  be  vulgar  to  hang  or  flog — 

A  fashionable  villain  hang  1 
No,  fill  your  pocket,  and  off  like  a  ro,cket, 
Or  else  to  Texas,  like  Davy  Crocket, 

And  you'll  soon  be  heroic  slang. 

We  are  often  taught  how  Judas  was  bought, 
And  then  how  his  neck  in  a  halter  was  caught — 

But  our  Judases  have  a  new  plan  ; 
They  cheat  and  betray  Uncle  Sam  every  day, 
And  then  to  the  sheriff  and  halter  they  say  : 

"  Now  catch  us,  my  boys,  if  you  can. 

To  live  honest  and  straight,  is  a  thing  out  of  date — 
'Tis  better  to  learn  to  lie  and  to  prate, 

To  humbug  the  people,  and  gull 
Them  out  of  their  sense,  and  out  of  their  pence, 
Than  tell  them  to  trust  them  a  hundred  year  hence — 

There's  nothing  like  making  a  fool. 

I  grieve  to  behold  my  countrymen,  sold 

To  the  slavery  of  self,  and  the  passion  for  gold, 

A  disgrace  to  their  patriot  sires, 
Who  peril'd  their  all,  to  I'eleasc  them  from  thrall, 
And  who  sleep  in  the  sod  that  was  gained  by  their  fall- 
Now  trodden  by  swindlers  and  liars. 


132  SATIRES. 

The  wicked  and  vile  are  all  the  while 
Endeavoring  to  make  the  public  their  spoil, 

By  every  method  they  can  ; 

But  tho'  masked  and  disguised  they  are  soon  recognized, 
And  are  seen  with  contempt,  and  spurned,  and  despised, 

By  the  patriot  and  honest  man. 


HUMAN    GREATNESS. 

WHEN  I  read  in  ancient  story 

All  the  wonders  of  the  past, 
Of  the  greatness  and  the  glory, 

Gone  to  ruin  and  to  waste, 
I  am  struck  with  a  misgiving, 

Human  greatness  and  a  name 
Are  not  worth,  unto  the  living, 

All  the  merit  which  they  claim 

Where  is  Babylon,  the  wonder 

And  the  mistress  of  the  world  1 
All  her  walls  are  rent  asunder, 

And  her  domes  to  ruin' hurled. 
Rome  is  mouldering  in  her  ashes, 

Ancient  Nineveh  is  dumb, 
And  no  Homer's  genius  flashes 

O'er  the  fields  of  Ilium. 

Lo !  Jerusalem  is  sleeping 
On  deserted  Syria's  plain — 

Desolation  walketh  weeping 
O'er  the  millions  of  her  slain ; 


133 


All  her  pride  is  in  her  valley- 
All  her  temples  in  her  tomb — 

And  the  midnight  robbers  rally 
Round  her  palaces  of  gloom. 

Though  the  pyramid  be  breasting 

Still  the  ravages  of  time, 
And  the  kings  who  built  them  resting 

In  their  monuments  sublime  ; 
To  the  elements  and  ages, 

Though  they  still  refuse  to  bend, 
Time  has  written  on  his  pages — 

Pyramids  must  have  an  end. 

When  the  monuments  and  cities 

Of  departed  time  I  scan, 
Deep  my  human  nature  pities, 

All  the  poor  pursuits  of  man ; 
Humbled  pride  points  to  the  column, 

And  the  relic  on  the  ground, 
And  ambition's  step  is  solemn, 

O'er  the  marble  and  the  mound. 

Fame,  beholds  oblivion  follow 
All  his  noise  and  trumpeting — 

And  bright  glory's  dazzling  halo 
Setteth  pale  and  perishing. 

Human  greatness,  what  a  bubble- 
Human  passion,  what  a  snare 

Have  ye  been  to  man,  so  noble, 
To  allure,  and  leave  him  bare  ! 

12 


134 


STRANGE   PURSUITS. 

STRANGE,  that  a  mortal  man  should  be 
Proud  of  himself  or  ancestry — 
And  look  with  a  stern  and  scornful  eye 
On  his  humble  fellow  that  passeth  by, 
And  turn  with  a  haughty  look  away  ; 
A  being  of  dust,  and  a  creature  of  clay. 

Strange,  that  the  fleeting  children  of  men, 
Whose  years  are  numbered  three-score  and  ten, 
Whose  days  are  uncertain,  and  whose  pleasures  and  pain 
Are  so  equally  balanced  there's  nothing  to  gain, 
Should  cling  to  life  with  a  grasp  so  strong — 
A  bubble  at  best,  and  a  dying  song. 

Strange,  that  a  man  should  seek  for  fame, 
And  toil  all  his  life  for  a  short-lived  name — 
And  by  the  lamp  of  the  midnight  pore, 
To  win  the  wisdom  of  the  wise  of  yore — 
While  o'er  Babylon's  site,  and  Palmyra's  plain, 
Desolation  cries — "  It  was  all  in  vain !" 

But  stranger  by  far,  to  see  him  stand, 
With  a  fiery  eye  and  a  fearless  hand, 
Ready  to  plunge  his  dagger's  dart, 
Into  the  depth  of  a  brother's  heart- 
Then  wear  the  wreath  thus  stained  with  blood, 
Up  to  the  altar  of  a  righteous  God. 

But  stranger  by  far  than  all  of  these, 
Is  to  see  a  mortal  upon  his  knees — 


155 


"With  suppliant  hand  and  uplifted  eye, 
Unto  the  throne  above  the  sky — 
Praying  its  wrath  might  quickly  fall 
Upon  his  foes,  and  destroy  them  all. 

And  this  is  the  being  who  occupies 

A  point  between  two  eternities ; 

The  past  is  gone — and  the  future's  to  come, 

While  he  soon  must  sleep  in  an  earthy  tomb — 

Alas  !  what  profiteth  it  to  scan 

The  mystery  of  life,  and  the  nature  of  man "? 


HUMAN   INCONSISTENCY. 

AH  !  why  should  man,  by  passion  swayed, 
Be  into  error's  path  betrayed  ; 
Be  caught  in  evil's  treacherous  snare, 
And  left  a  captive  prisoner  there  ; 
When  by  so  many  lessons  taught 
Where  folly  has  her  victims  brought, 
Where  treach'rous  pride  has  left  her  friends 
And  fierce  ambition's  struggle  ends  1 

When  taught  how  Avarice  for  his  slave 
Painfully  digs  a  golden  grave, 
And  to  perpetuate  his  shame, 
Writes  on  a  marble  slab  his  name  ; 
How  Pleasure  with  her  syren  song, 
Lures  her  pale  votaries  along, 
With  prophecies  of  future  bliss, 
Down  to  destruction's  precipice ; 


136 


When  by  Time's  winged  herald  taught, 
How  soon  the  greatest  are  forgot, 
How  Glory's  victim  bleeding— slain, 
Cries  out,  "  How  vain,  how  madly  vain" — 
How  tyrants  to  transmit  a  name, 
Left  an  inheritance  of  shame 
Unto  their  country,  and  their  age, 
To  blot  poor  human  Nature's  page  : — 

'Tis  strange  when  taught  by  every  ill, 
Man  should  repeat  his  follies  still — 
That  all  the  vain  conceits  he  tries, 
Should  never  teach  him  to  be  wise ; 
When  every  record  of  his  race, 
Holds  up  a  mirror  to  his  face 
To  learn  him  wisdom,  and  to  tell 
Him  how  his  predecessors  fell. 

The  shoals  are  buoyed,  the  rocks  are  seen, 
And  the  deep  channel  smooth  between, 
Where  Safety  holds  his  lamp  on  high, 
For  the  poor  wanderer  to  espy — 
But  all  the  warning  is  in  vain, 
The  fated  ship  is  wrecked  ag^ain, 
And  all  its  worth,  as  heretofore, 
Is  lost  on  passion's  tempest  shore. 


OLD   CASTLES. 

OLD  castles  there  are  many, 
Frowning  above  the  sea, 

But  what  is  that  to  any, 
Or,  reader,  you  or  me  ; — 


137 


Their  lords  were  feudal  felons, 
Their  tenantry  were  slaves, 

They  led  their  vassals  to  the  field, 
To  furnish  them  with  graves. 

Oh !  cruel  was  the  power 

Of  those  insatiate  men  ; 
From  battlement  and  tower 

They  hurled  their  foes,  and  then 
They  banqueted  in  gore, 

And  drank  from  human  skulls  ; 
Their  barb'rous  reign  is  o'er, 

Fair  liberty  annuls. 

Festooned  around  with  flowers 

Their  silent  walls  are  seen ; 
The  bat  is  in  their  bowers, 

The  lizard  on  their  green  ; 
The  banquet  hall  is  lighted 

By  savage  beaming  eyes, 
And  the  robber's  faith  is  plighted 

Beneath  their  canopies. 

The  revel  that  is  there, 

Is  of  the  feasting  worm, 
And  the  music  of  the  heir 

Is  the  howling  of  the  storm ; 
The  bear  is  in  the  parlor, 

The  panther  in  the  hall — 
Come  all  ye  odious  creatures, 

Ho  !  to  the  festival. 

12* 


138 


CAPITAL    PUNISHMENT. 

ALACK  !  alack !  has  it  come  to  this, 
That  a  man  must  be  hung,  let  it  hit  or  miss- 
Strung  up  like  a  kitten  for  boys  to  hiss 

Him  off  of  the  stage  1 
And  those  perchance  no  better  than  him, 
As  deeply  involved  in  vice  and  crime — 
Oh  !  this  is  a  doctrine  most  sublime 

In  a  Christian  age. 

Who  is  there  can  tell  the  degree  of  guilt, 
The  causes  and  motives,  when  blood  is  spilt — 
Why  the  structure  of  mind  was  so  viciously  built  7 

But  God  alone ; 

Who  is  there  can  follow  the  mazes  that  brought 
The  victim  to  such  a  deplorable  lot, 
What  hardened  the  heart,  and  perverted  the  thought 

When  the  deed  was  done  1 

Who  is  there  so  perfect  can  balance  it — who 
The  proportion  of  guilt  and  the  punishment  due, 
Since  Cain  his  poor  brother  in  wickedness  slew  1 

I  think  there  is  none — 

But  should  there,  indeed,  such  a  judge  be  found, 
So  upright,  so  wise,  so  just  and  profound, 
As  to  tell  when  the  halter  deserves  to  be  wound, 

Let  his  will  be  done. 

Let  him  mount  up  the  scaffold  with  halter  in  hand, 
And  bind  round  the  eyes  of  his  victim  a  band,     ' 
And  the  blood  of  his  fellow  flow  at  his  command, 
As  he  struggling  dies  ; 


SATIRES.  139 

Let  the  shout  of  the  multitude  follow  the  deed, 
That  a  soul  has  been  lost  beyond  hope  or  remeed, 
While  the  hearts  of  the  merciful  shudder  and  bleed 
At  the  sacrifice. 

Will  the  incense  that  smokes  on  the  trembling  sod, 

The  incense  of  blood  be  accepted  by  God ; 

Can  the  criminal's  death  pay  the  price  of  the  blood 

Crime  had  taken  away  1 

Will  the  reign  of  the  righteous  be  ever  restored, 
Where  the  goddess  of  Mercy  is  ever  adored, 
Where  the  shedding  of  blood  is  not  hated,  abhorred, 

Ye  death  advocates,  say  1 


OLD  PEOPLE  AND  NEW,  OR  AUNT  PATTY. 

I  KNOW  some  old  people  much  better  than  new — 
Once  they  were  many,  now  they  are  few, 
But  enough  there  are  left  of  the  old  kidney  still, 
To  inform  us  the  race  is  descending  the  hill. 

There's  old  Uncle  Jermy,  is  one  of  the  kind, 
And  Shadrac,  his  brother,  is  not  far  behind  ; 
They  mind  their  own  business  and  let  others  be, 
A  very  good  plan,  reader,  for  you  and  me. 

They  don't  go  a  gadding  to  find  something  out, 
Or  see  what  their  neighbors  and  friends  are  about, 
But  they  keep  their  own  counsel  and  mind  their  own  hook, 
And  lay  by  the  dollars,  J  guess,  "  like  a  book," 


140 


And  there  is  Aunt  Patty — so  tidy  the  whiles, 
She  plays  with  her  shuttle,  and  dresses  in  smiles; 
She  paints  her  own  cheeks,  and  bustles  about, 
And  stays  at  her  home,  when  her  husband  is  out. 

She  sings  to  her  children,  and  waltzes  a  reel, 
Her  theatre,  home,  and  her  music,  the  wheel ; 
Her  card  but  inviteth  the  flax  and  the  fleece, 
And  her  part y  is  honor,  health,  virtue,  and  peace. 

On  these  old-fashioned  people,  and  there  is  more  yet, 
I  look  with  a  pleasure,  and  yet  with  regret—- 
For  they  and  their  virtues  are  fast  giving  place 
To  a  butterfly,  idle,  contemptible  race. 

A  few  years,  and  where  will  the  music  be  found, 
Of  the  wheel  buzzing  melody,  merrily  round ; 
A  few  years  and  where  will  Diogenes  then, 
Light  a  candle  to  find  the  old  species  of  men  1 

As  in  Athens  of  old,  so  I  fear  very  soon, 
Here  a  man  can't  be  seen,  except  him  in  the  moon ; 
And  the  women  so  lauded  in  Salomon's  verse, 
Some  fool  of  a  poet,  like  me,  may  rehearse. 

One  image  of  buckram,  another  of  gauze, 
Are  Lady  and  Gentlemen  reckoned,  because 
They  are  just  good  for  nothing  but  mountebank  show- 
So  Ladies  and  Gentlemen,  now  you  may  go. 


141 


PERFECTION. 

Is  THERE  a  tongue  that  never  lied — 
A  heart  unknown  to  human  pride — 
An  ear  that  flattery  hath  not  found 
A  willing  listener  to  its  sound  1 
Is  there  a  mind  so  pure  that  nought 
Hath  ever  entertained  but  thought 
As  pure  as  chrystal  waters  flow, 
Melted  from  mountain  wreaths  of  snow  1 
A  hand  so  clean  that  sordid  gold 
Hath  never  hid  within  its  hold, 
When  charity,  with  humble  prayer, 
Meekly  petitioned  for  its  share  1 
A  breast  whence,  passion  never  drove 
Away  the  peace-inspiring  dove, 
And  left  the  vulture  there,  to  prey 
Of  fell  remorse,  from  day  to  day  1 

Is  there  a  foot  that  never  strayed 
Into  the  paths  of  vice,  and  made 
Excuses  longer  there  to  stay, 
When  virtue  pointed  out  the  way  1 
An  eye,  that  never  viewed  and  scorned 
The  virtuous  man,  in  rags  adorned, 
And  homage  paid  unto  the  great, 
Whose  only  merit  was  his  state  1 
Doth  there  a  man  or  woman  live, 
Who  never  did  occasion  give, 
Of  some  sweet  scandal  that  was  true, 
Then  dodged  the  arrow  as  it  flew  1 


142 


If  still  a  character  so  fair 
Shine  on  the  earth,  pray  let  it  bear 
The  palm  of  victory,  and  stone 
The  rest — for  'tis  the  only  one. 


KNOWLEDGE. 

COME  tell  me,  ye  who  search  the  skies 
Contemplate  and  soliloquize, 

Above,  around ; 

Is  knowledge,  when  attained  by  us, 
A  thing  for  better  or  for  worse — 
Is  it  a  blessing  or  a  curse 

Corroding  wound  1 

If  for  a  blessing,  why  is  pain 
The  penalty,  by  which  we  gain 

Its  hidden  store  1 

Why  must  we  wind  a  tedious  road, 
Ambition  stinging  like  a  goad, 
While  every  step  adds  to  a  load, 

Too  great  before  1 

Why  must  we  all  the  sweets  forego, 
The  happy  ignorance  of  woe, 

Before  it  came  * 

And  when  the  light  of  truth  we  win, 
Why  doth  it  show  the  way  of  sin, 
And  the  ten  thousand,  wandering  in 

Its  path  of  shame  7 


143 


And  when  we  deem  us  greatly  wise, 
Why  do  we  look  with  tearful  eyes, 

Upon  the  past, 

When  wisdom's  page  was  unrevealed, 
And  knowledge  was  a  volume  sealed, 
And  we  had  never  trod  the  field, 

So  wide,  so  vast  1 

And  when  we  ask  the  human  heart, 
Some  lovely  image  to  impart, 

Why  start  and  stare, 
As  we  its  finest  cords  unwind, 
With  tender  touches  true  and  kind, 
Dismayed  and  horror-struck  to  find 

A  monster  there  1 

When,  like  a  plainly  written  scroll, 
Our  thoughts  can  read  the  human  soul, 

So  wide,  so  deep, 

And  like  the  ancient  Hebrew  sago, 
We've  read  it  through,  from  youth  to  age — 
Why  do  we  shut  the  awful  page, 

And  turn  and  weep  1 

If  knowledge  be  a  blessing,  why 
Doth  man  alone  know  he  must  die. 

And  fear  his  fate  1 

Come  tell  me,  ye  who  search  the  skies,' 
Contemplate  and  soliloquize, 
Is  it  a  blessing  to  be  wise, 

In  knowledge  great  1 


144 


WEDLOCK   A   SPECULATION. 

WHEN-  first  I  looked  at  Tiuman  life, 
I  thought  it  wise  to  take  a  wife, 

And  help  along  creation  ; 
But  how  to  gain  the  softer  sex, 
My  mind  did  very  sorely  vex — 
I  dreamed  not  what  seemed  so  complex 

Was  all  a  speculation. 

I  looked  with  smiles,  and  sighed  profound, 
On  all  the  rosy  cheeks  around, 

All  lily  and  carnation ; 
But  soon  I  found,  such  pranks  she  played, 
Love  was  a  mercenary  jade — 
That  getting  money  was  her  trade, 

And  wedlock — speculation. 

1  learned  on  instruments  to  play, 
And  soft  and  pretty  things  to  say, 

And  sang  to  admiration  ; 

But  I  was  poor  ! — and  to  my  cost, 

I  found  that  all  my  time  was  lost — 

That  I  was  deemed  by  girls,  at  most, 

A  sorry  speculation. 

I  asked  my  grand-ma  if  'twere  so 

When  she  was  young,  and  she  said — "  No  '.' 

With  solemn  indignation ; 
"  'Twos  then  the  fashion  for  a  maid 
To  love  with  all  her  heart" — she  said — 
"  Nor  marriage  ever  was  a  trade, 

Or  wedlock  speculation," 


145 


"  The  girls  all  fell  in  love  at  sight, 

And  loved  with  all  their  heart  and  might 

Thro'  life  without  cessation  ; 
The  people  then  were  honest  folks, 
And  marriage  was  not  all  a  hoax, 
For  upstart  fops  to  cheat  and  coax 

Into  a  speculation." 

I  asked  her  then  what  I  should  do 
In  such  a  case ; — she  told  me  to 

Adopt  another  nation ; 
Where  female  worth  was  never  sold, 
To  bloated  wealth  or  blear-eyed  gold— 
Where  marriage  is  no  heartless,  cold, 
Stock-jobbing  speculation. 


A   PICTURE   OF   MAN. 

THE  snow  is  falling  on  the  ground, 
The  wind  is  rudely  rushing  round  ; 
I  muse  in  gloomy  thought  profound, 

On  all  the  ills, 

The  world  that  fills— 
That  human  life  is  heir  to. 

The  summer's  heat,  the  winter's  cold, 
The  hot  pursuit  for  worthless  gold- 
Man,  growing  feeble,  gray  and  old, 

His  noble  self, 

The  prey  of  pelf, 
Its  penalties  and  care,  too. 

13 


146  SATIRES. 

Unknowing  all  his  future  fate, 
Pursuing  with  relentless  hate 
His  fellow  man,  early  and  late, 

He  never  tires 

'Till  he  expires ; 
I  wonder  how  he  dare  to. 

A  wealthy  sot,  a  plodding  fool, 

Adversity  his  only  school — 

His  wicked  heart  the  passions'  pool, 

He  lives  and  dies, 

To  his  surprise  ! 
And  deems  it  quite  wnfair,  too. 

Exhibiting  a  loathsome  pride, 
While  standing  even  death  beside, 
And  the  grave's  portals  open  wide, 
With  haughty  pace, 
He  ends  his  race — 
The  goal  that  aU  repair  to. 

Destruction  and  oppression's  slave, 

He  rides  upon  a  gory  wave ; 

In  taking  life  he's  only  brave. 
He  seeks  abroad* 
To  drench  his  sword, 

To  mutilate,  and  tear  too. 

To  contemplate  my  fellow-man, 
His  moral  picture  if  to  scan, 
;Tis  all  defaced,  since  time  began, 

By  every  crime, 

In  every  clime — 
I  cannot,  cannot,  bear  to. 


SATIRES.  147 

Is  there  no  hope  1 — my  brother,  rise 

From  this  pollution  and  be  wise ; 

God  will  assist  the  heart  that  tries- 
Come  to  the  pool, 
Be  washed  and  whole, 

And  gladly  I'll  be  there,  too. 


THE   FISHING   PARTY. 

ONCE  Cleopatra  and  her  beau, 
Love's  pastime  to  beguile ; 
To  view  that  river's  giant  flow, 
And  Egypt's  valley  all  in  glow, 
Went  fishing  on  the  Nile. 

And  mighty  men  from  lands  afar, 
To  grace  the  sport  had  come, 
With  bolt,  and  brand,  and  scimitar, 
Raised  by  that  thunder-bolt  of  war, 
Mark  Antony,  of  Rome. 

Yet  in  that  pageant,  there  was  one 

With  majesty  of  mien, 
Eclipsed  by  lords  and  ladies  none — 
The  brightest  gem  of  Egypt's  throne, 

Egypt's  all  beauteous  Queen. 

With  baited  hooks  the  noble  pair 
Their  sparkling  reeds  let  fall ; 
The  Queen  with  subtle  art  and  care, 
The  wary  victims  to  ensnare, 
To  pique  the  General. 


148 


First,  fortune  was  on  Egypt's  side — 

The  Queen  was  conqueror, 
And  bore  her  triumph  o'er  the  tide, 
With  shouts  and  laughter,  to  deride 
The  haughty  Triumvir. 

Next  day  the  sporting  was  essayed, 

With  eagerness  and  glee; 
And  fortune  now  the  truant  played, 
And  seemed  most  bounteously  to  aid 
The  skill  of  Antony. 

The  Queen  beheld  the  strange  success, 

But  quite  concealed  her  rage, 
And  to  her  magi,  in  distress, 
She  whispered  him  the  trick  to  guess ; 
When  thus  replied  the  sage : 

"Mark  Antony  this  trick  has  planned — 

So  says  this  sacred  book  ; 
His  divers,  by  his  wise  command, 
Dive  with  the  fish  held  in  their  hand, 
And  fix  them  on  hi«  hook." 

The  Queen  a  diver  had,  could  swim 
Like  salmon  in  the  sea ; 

She  took  a  well  cooked  fish  to  him, 

To  gratify  a  wicked  whim, 
And  gibe  Mark  Antony. 

"  Go  place  this  cooked  and  pickled  fish 
Upon  his  hook  the  while — 


149 


'Tis  ready  for  my  hero's  dish — 
And  I'll  dine  with  him,  if  he  wish," 
The  Queen  said  with  a  smile. 

The  Consul  felt  the  nibble,  and 

Before  his  divers  came, 
Drew  the  unlucky  fish  to  land, 
While  shouts  arose  on  every  hand, 

To  aggravate  his  shame. 

And  now,  young  gentlemen,  who  strive 

To  take  the  ladies  in, 
Take  care  what  kind  of  tricks  you  drive, 
Lest  in  your  folly  you  contrive, 

A  pickled  fish  to  win. 


THE   SWINDLER. 

IN  this  brief  paragraph  I  write, 
I  have  nor  envy,  hate,  or  spite ; 
But  when  men  trample  on  the  laws 
Of  honor,  then  there  is  a  cause 
For  censure,  satire,  and  invective, 
To  bring  among  us  a  corrective. 

A  man  of  honor  keeps  his  word, 
And  day,  and  date,  is  not  deferred : 
He  never  promises,  to  balk, 
But  meets  the  charge,  and  toes  the  chalk ; 
His  word  he  deems  his  greatest  treasure — 
To  pay  his  debts  his  greatest  pleasure. 
13* 


150 


But  there  are  some  who  go  about, 
To  cheat  an  honest  public  out 
Of  their  money  and  their  sense, 
Whose  course  admits  of  no  defence  ; 
They  borrow  money,  and  I  say  it, 
They  never  mean  again  to  pay  it. 

Their  sweetened  words  are  smooth  as  oil- 
They're  ever  ready  to  beguile  ; 
They  throw  some  dust  before  your  eyes, 
Then  make  your  purse  an  easy  prize ; 
The  human  heart  they  melt  and  soften, 
And  I  have  seen  them  do  it  often, 

Some  pretty  story  they  will  drawl, 
Until  your  tears  begin  to  fall — 
Of  some  mishap,  or  some  distress, 
And  then  they  coax,  and  tease,  and  bless 
You  hear  their  tale  of  sad  disaster, 
Your  tears  begin  to  trickle  faster. 

And  now  your  purse  is  in  your  hand, 
Your  trembling  fingers  loose  the  band, 
You  give  your  money  to  a— knave, 
And  time  discovers  you  the  shave ; 
His  hand  has  been  into  your  pocket — 
You  see  yourself  a  dupe,  a  blockhead. 


MORAL,   SENTIMENTAL,  DESCRIPTIVE, 
PASTORAL,  &c. 


I  OFTEN  gaze  in  silent  wonder 
Around  the  mighty  Heavens,  and  ponder 
Alone  upon  the  orbs  that  wander 
Around  the  sky. 

The  worlds  that  wade  in  ether's  ocean, 
And  hide  in  distance  e'en  their  motion, 
Excite  my  awe  and  deep  devotion — 
Ah !  what  am  1 1 

Compared  with  the  unnumbered  splendors 
That  shine  through  Heaven's  eternal  windows, 
All  human  thought  to  thee  surrenders, 
Infinity. 

System  on  system  never  ending, 
Their  lesser  lights  and  greater  blending  ; 
Unto  what  region  are  they  tending 
Eternally  1 

Into  what  depths,  thought  never  entered, 
Are  all  their  mighty  motions  centered, 
"Where  science  yet  hath  never  ventured, 
Nor  poesy  1 


152  MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL, 

What  fields  of  light  lie  unexplored, 
Where  human  thought  hath  never  soared ! 
With  myriad  worlds  thy  realm  is  stored 
Immensity. 

Man,  though  an  atom,  still  is  blended 
With  all  unseen,  uncomprehended ; 
Deem  not  thyself  then  unbefriended, 
Mortality. 

The  power  that  gave  the  insect  being, 
Though  all  unseen  is  ever-seeing ; 
Oh !  who  can  grasp  its  wise  decreeing  1 
Frail  man,  not  thee. 

Thou  art  a  world  in  thy  formation, 
And  in  thy  mind  a  constellation 
Of  glorious  light ! — with  education 
And  Liberty. 

Then  learn  thyself,  and  seek  no  more, 
A  world  is  in  thee  to  explore — 
Be  meek  and  humble,  and  adore 
The  Deity. 


THOUGHT. 

WHEN  Thought,  an  angel  from  the  skies 
Had  left  the  realms  of  paradise, 
Its  glorious  mission  to  fulfill, 
Directed  by  the  Eternal  Will, 


DESCRIPTIVE,  ETC.  153 

It  sped  o'er  all  the  universe 
And  saw  what  man  shall  ne'er  rehearse — 
And  grasping  the  stupendous  whole, 
At  last  espied  the  human  soul. 

Helpless  and  still  on  earth  it  lay, 
Enshrouded  in  a  form  of  clay — 
Lovely  and  graceful  to  behold, 
Just  as  it  left  its  Maker's  mould  ; 
A  jewel  in  a  clod  so  fair 
Had  ne'er  been  seen  as  sparkled  there ; 
"  I've  found  what  I  so  long  have  sought, 
I'll  win  and  wear  this  gem,"  said  Thought. 

"  I'll  give  it  language,  truth,  and  light, 
And  knowledge  for  another  sight ; 
I'll  lend  it  spirit  wings  to  fly, 
To  search  the  sea,  the  earth,  the  sky ; 
I'll  give  it  eloquence  to  tell 
The  wonders  that  around  it  dwell ; 
And  beautiful  among  the  rest, 
I'll  give  it  love  to  make  it  blest. 

"  I'll  call  reflection  to  its  aid, 
And  give  it  wisdom,  heavenly  maid, 
Its  noble  passion  to  inflame 
To  deeds  of  honor,  greatness,  fame  ; 
I'll  build  a  road,  and  by  its  side 
Plant  flowers  in  every  color  dyed, 
And  call  it  Virtue-and  in  this 
I'll  lead  the  human  soul  to  bliss." 

Then  quick  as  lightning's  swiftest  ray, 
Thought  rushed  into  the  astonished  clay ; 


154  MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL, 

Then  from  its  eyes  of  azure  beam, 
There  poured  of  light,  a  living  stream, 
That  spread  around,  as  ripples  glide 
In  rapid  circles  o'er  the  tide, 
Until  the  world  all  fresh  and  new, 
Burst  on  the  child's  enraptured  view. 

Now  see  it  from  its  cradle  bound, 
And  gaze  with  joyous  wonder  round 
On  the  blue  Heaven,  and  on  the  bright 
Mosaic  that  receives  its  light ; 
That  hapless  form,  that  lately  lay 
A  helpless  clod  of  beauteous  clay, 
Behold  it  now,  the  wondrous  whole, 
A  thinking,  moving,  living  soul. 

Now,  reader,  see  what  thought  can  span, 

Look  at  the  intellectual  man, 

His  action,  reason,  words,  and  skill, 

And  be  a  skeptic  if  you  will ; 

Sleep  in  your  kennel  or  your  sty, 

Say  that  you'll  eat,  and  drink,  and  die ; 

Be  through  your  life  a  thing^of  naught, 

Perish  in  night,  and  banish Thought. 


THE  MARCH  OF  MIND. 

I  STOOD  upon  a  ray  of  light 
When  time  had  just  begun, 

When  chaos  leaped  from  ancient  night 
And  fled  before  the  sun  j 


DESCRIPTIVE,   ETC.  155 

I  saw  the  sparkling  atoms  meet 

That  formed  each  mighty  star, 
And  worlds  careering  at  my  feet 

In  ether's  depths  afar. 

Each  in  its  order  took  its  place, 

And  marched  its  circles  round, 
Each  bright  inhabitant  of  space 

Knew  his  allotted  bound ; 
I  marveled  how  so  many  gems, 

Linked  in  each  other's  rays, 
Could  all  perform  their  stated  times, 

Their  seasons,  and  their  days. 

Again,  I  stood  upon  a  cloud, 

The  fields  were  green  below, 
The  trees  were  trimmed,  the  earth  was  ploughed, 

And  corn  began  to  grow ; 
And  man  was  there  with  loftymien, 

To  art  and  science  joined, 
With  taste  to  beautify  the  scene, 

And  with  a  glorious  mind. 

And  now  the  Universe  began 

Its  mysteries  to  unfold, 
Before  the  searching  eye  of  man 

Its  revelations  rolled ; 
Astronomy,  with  Newton  came, 

Its  mighty  laws  to  prove ; 
And  Franklin  drew  the  electric  flame 

From  the  abode  of  Jove. 

Again,  I  stood  upon  the  beach 
Of  a  pellucid  stream, 


\ 

156  MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL, 

A  thousand  flowers  were  in  my  reach, 
And  every  eye  did  beam 

With  rapture,  as  I  gazed  among 
The  happy  beings  there ; 

The  old  were  playing  with  the  young, 
And  all  were  free  from  care. 

Perfection  dwelt  in  every  mind — 

Man  had  his  summit  gained, 
With  every  excellence  combined, 

Without  an  error  stained ; 
A  thousand  blessings  round  him  flowed 

Where'er  he  sat  or  roved — 
A  paradise  was  his  abode, 

And  all  he  saw,  he  loved. 


OUR   OLD    HOUSE. 

THEY'VE  razed  our  cottage  to  the  ground- 
Our  ancient  cot  with  trees  around, 
That  stood  a  little  from  the  road — 
Just  far  enough  for  love's  abode  ; 
Knights  of  the  adze  and  chisel,  they 
Pried  off  the  boards  to  my  dismay. 
Their  ruthless  deeds  I  do  deplore — 
Our  poor  old  house  is  now  no  more. 

They  tore  the  lath  and  shingles  off; 
And  then  they  raised  the  jeer  and  scoff, 
To  see  the  aged  rafters  bare, 
And  reel,  and  tremble  in  the  air ; 


145 


*'  The  girls  all  fell  in  love  at  sight, 

And  loved  with  all  their  heart  and  might 

Thro'  life  without  cessation  ; 
The  people  then  were  honest  folks, 
And  marriage  was  not  all  a  hoax, 
For  upstart  fops  to  cheat  and  coax 

Into  a  speculation." 

1  asked  her  then  what  I  should  do 
In  such  a  case  ; — she  told  me  to 

Adopt  another  nation ; 
Where  female  worth  was  never  sold, 
To  bloated  wealth  or  blear-eyed  gold — 
Where  marriage  is  no  heartless,  cold, 

Stock-jobbing  speculation. 


A   PICTURE   OF   MAN. 

THE  snow  is  falling  on  the  ground, 
The  wind  is  rudely  rushing  round  ; 
I  muse  in  gloomy  thought  profound, 

On  all  the  ills, 

The  world  that  fills— 
That  human  life  is  heir  to. 

The  summer's  heat,  the  winter's  cold. 
The  hot  pursuit  for  worthless  gold- 
Man,  growing  feeble,  gray  and  old, 

His  noble  self, 

The  prey  of  pelf, 
Its  penalties  and  care,  too. 

13 


146 


Unknowing  all  his  future  fate, 
Pursuing  with  relentless  hate 
His  fellow  man,  early  and  late, 

He  never  tires 

'Till  he  expires ; 
I  wonder  how  he  dare  to. 

A  wealthy  sot,  a  plodding  fool, 

Adversity  his  only  school — 

His  wicked  heart  the  passions'  pool, 

He  lives  and  dies, 

To  his  surprise  ! 
And  deems  it  quite  wnfair,  too. 

Exhibiting  a  loathsome  pride, 
While  standing  even  death  beside, 
And  the  grave's  portals  open  wide, 

With  haughty  pace, 

He  ends  his  race — 
The  goal  that  all  repair  to. 

Destruction  and  oppression's  slave, 

He  rides  upon  a  gory  wave  ; 

In  taking  life  he's  only  brave. 
He  seeks  abroad 
To  drench  his  sword, 

To  mutilate,  and  tear  too. 

To  contemplate  my  fellow-man, 
His  moral  picture  if  to  scan, 
"Tis  all  defaced,  since  time  began, 

By  every  crime, 

In  every  clime — 
I  cannot,  cannot,  bear  to. 


147 


Is  there  no  hope  1 — my  brother,  rise 

From  this  pollution  and  be  wise  ; 

God  will  assist  the  heart  that  tries — 
Come  to  the  pool, 
Be  washed  and  whole, 

And  gladly  I'll  be  there,  too. 


THE    FISHING   PARTY. 

ONCE  Cleopatra  and  her  beau, 

Love's  pastime  to  beguile  ; 

To  view  that  river's  giant  flow, 

And  Egypt's  valley  all  in  glow, 

Went  fishing  on  the  Nile. 

And  mighty  men  from  lands  afar, 
To  grace  the  sport  had  come, 
With  bolt,  and  brand,  and  scimitar, 
Raised  by  that  thunder-bolt  of  war, 
Mark  Antony,  of  Rome. 

Yet  in  that  pageant,  there  was  one 

With  majesty  of  mien, 
Eclipsed  by  lords  and  ladies  none — 
The  brightest  gem  of  Egypt's  throne, 

Egypt's  all  beauteous  Queen. 

With  baited  hooks  the  noble  pair 
Their  sparkling  reeds  let  fall ; 
The  Queen  with  subtle  art  and  care, 
The  wary  victims  to  ensnare, 
To  pique  the  General. 


148 


First,  fortune  was  on  Egypt's  side— 

The  Queen  was  conqueror, 
And  bore  her  triumph  o'er  the  tide, 
"With  shouts  and  laughter,  to  deride 
The  haughty  Triumvir. 

Next  day  the  sporting  was  essayed, 

With  eagerness  and  glee ; 
And  fortune  now  the  truant  played, 
And  seemed  most  bounteously  to  aid 
The  skill  of  Antony. 

The  Queen  beheld  the  strange  success, 

But  quite  concealed  her  rage, 
And  to  her  magi,  in  distress, 
She  whispered  him  the  trick  to  guess  ; 
When  thus  replied  the  sage : 

"  Mark  Antony  this  trick  has  planned — 

So  says  this  sacred  book  ; 
His  divers,  by  his  wise  command, 
Dive  with  the  fish  held  in  their  hand, 
And  fix  them  on  his*hook." 

The  Queen  a  diver  had,  could  swim 
Like  salmon  in  the  sea ; 

She  took  a  well  cooked  fish  to  him, 

To  gratify  a  wicked  whim, 
And  gibe  Mark  Antony. 

"  Go  place  this  cooked  and  pickled  fish 
Upon  his  hook  the  while — 


SATIRES.  149 

'Tis  ready  for  my  hero's  dish — 
And  I'll  dine  with  him,  if  he  wish," 
The  Queen  said  with  a  smile. 

The  Consul  felt  the  nibble,  and 

Before  his  divers  came, 
Drew  the  unlucky  fish  to  land, 
While  shouts  arose  on  every  hand, 

To  aggravate  his  shame. 

And  now,  young  gentlemen,  who  strive 

To  take  the  ladies  in, 
Take  care  what  kind  of  tricks  you  drive, 
Lest  in  your  folly  you  contrive, 

A  pickled  fish  to  win. 


THE   SWINDLER. 

IN  this  brief  paragraph  I  write, 
I  have  nor  envy,  hate,  or  spite ; 
But  when  men  trample  on  the  laws 
Of  honor,  then  there  is  a  cause 
For  censure,  satire,  and  invective, 
To  bring  among  us  a  corrective. 

A  man  of  honor  keeps  his  word, 
And  day,  and  date,  is  not  deferred : 
He  never  promises,  to  balk, 
But  meets  the  charge,  and  toes  the  chalk ; 
His  word  he  deems  his  greatest  treasure — 
To  pay  his  debts  his  greatest  pleasure. 
13* 


150 


But  there  are  some  who  go  about, 
To  cheat  an  honest  public  out 
Of  their  money  and  their  sense, 
Whose  course  admits  of  no  defence  ; 
They  borrow  money,  and  I  say  it, 
They  never  mean  again  to  pay  it. 

Their  sweetened  words  are  smooth  as  oil— 
They're  ever  ready  to  beguile  ; 
They  throw  some  dust  before  your  eyes, 
Then  make  your  purse  an  easy  prize  ; 
The  human  heart  they  melt  and  soften, 
And  I  have  seen  them  do  it  often, 

Some  pretty  story  they  will  drawl, 
Until  your  tears  begin  to  fall — 
Of  some  mishap,  or  some  distress, 
And  then  they  coax,  and  tease,  and  bless- 
You  hear  their  tale  of  sad  disaster, 
Tour  tears  begin  to  trickle  faster. 

And  now  your  purse  is  in  your  hand, 
Your  trembling  fingers  loose  the  band, 
You  give  your  money  to  a— knave, 
And  time  discovers  you  the  shave ; 
His  hand  has  been  into  your  pocket — 
You  see  yourself  a  dupe,  a  blockhead. 


MORAL,   SENTIMENTAL,  DESCRIPTIVE, 
PASTORAL,  &c. 


I  OFTEN  gaze  in  silent  wonder 
Around  the  mighty  Heavens,  and  ponder 
Alone  upon  the  orbs  that  wander 
Around  the  sky. 

The  worlds  that  wade  in  ether's  ocean, 
And  hide  in  distance  e'en  their  motion, 
Excite  my  awe  and  deep  devotion — 
Ah !  what  am  1 1 

Compared  with  the  unnumbered  splendors 
That  shine  through  Heaven's  eternal  windows, 
All  human  thought  to  thee  surrenders, 
Infinity. 

System  on  system  never  ending, 
Their  lesser  lights  and  greater  blending  ; 
Unto  what  region  are  they  tending 
Eternally  7 

Into  what  depths,  thought  never  entered, 
Are  all  their  mighty  motions  centered, 
Where  science  yet  hath  never  ventured, 
Nor  poesy  1 


152  MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL, 

What  fields  of  light  lie  unexplored, 
Where  human  thought  hath  never  soared ! 
With  myriad  worlds  thy  realm  is  stored 
Immensity. 

Man,  though  an  atom,  still  is  blended 
With  all  unseen,  uncomprehended ; 
Deem  not  thyself  then  unbefriended, 
Mortality. 

The  power  that  gave  the  insect  being, 
Though  all  unseen  is  ever-seeing  ; 
Oh !  who  can  grasp  its  wise  decreeing ? 
Frail  man,  not  thee. 

Thou  art  a  world  in  thy  formation, 
And  in  thy  mind  a  constellation 
Of  glorious  light ! — with  education 
And  Liberty. 

Then  learn  thyself,  and  seek  no  more, 
A  world  is  in  thee  to  explore — 
Be  meek  and  humble,  and  adore 
The  Deity. 


THOUGHT. 

WHEN  Thought,  an  angel  from  the  skies 
Had  left  the  realms  of  paradise, 
Its  glorious  mission  to  fulfill, 
Directed  by  the  Eternal  Will, 


DESCRIPTIVE,  ETC.  153 

It  sped  o'er  all  the  universe 
And  saw  what  man  shall  ne'er  rehearse — 
And  grasping  the  stupendous  whole, 
At  last  espied  the  human  soul. 

Helpless  and  still  on  earth  it  lay, 
Enshrouded  in  a  form  of  clay — 
Lovely  and  graceful  to  behold, 
Just  as  it  left  its  Maker's  mould  ; 
A  jewel  in  a  clod  so  fair 
Had  ne'er  been  seen  as  sparkled  there ; 
"  I've  found  what  I  so  long  have  sought, 
I'll  win  and  wear  this  gem,"  said  Thought. 

:'  I'll  give  it  language,  truth,  and  light, 
And  knowledge  for  another  sight ; 
I'll  lend  it  spirit  wings  to  fly, 
To  search  the  sea,  the  earth,  the  sky ; 
I'll  give  it  eloquence  to  tell 
The  wonders  that  around  it  dwell ; 
And  beautiful  among  the  rest, 
I'll  give  it  love  to  make  it  blest. 

;'  I'll  call  reflection  to  its  aid, 
And  give  it  wisdom,  heavenly  maid, 
Its  noble  passion  to  inflame 
To  deeds  of  honor,  greatness,  fame  ; 
I'll  build  a  road,  and  by  its  side 
Plant  flowers  in  every  color  dyed, 
And  call  it  Virtue-and  in  this 
I'll  lead  the  human  soul  to  bliss." 

Then  quick  as  lightning's  swiftest  ray, 
Thought  rushed  into  the  astonished  clay  ; 


154  MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL, 

Then  from  its  eyes  of  azure  beam, 
There  poured  of  light,  a  living  stream, 
That  spread  around,  as  ripples  glide 
In  rapid  circles  o'er  the  tide, 
Until  the  world  all  fresh  and  new, 
Burst  on  the  child's  enraptured  view. 

Now  see  it  from  its  cradle  bound, 
And  gaze  with  joyous  wonder  round 
On  the  blue  Heaven,  and  on  the  bright 
Mosaic  that  receives  its  light ; 
That  hapless  form,  that  lately  lay 
A  helpless  clod  of  beauteous  clay, 
Behold  it  now,  the  wondrous  whole, 
A  thinking,  moving,  living  soul. 

Now,  reader,  see  what  thought  can  span, 

Look  at  the  intellectual  man, 

His  action,  reason,  words,  and  skill, 

And  be  a  skeptic  if  you  will ; 

Sleep  in  your  kennel  or  your  sty, 

Say  that  you'll  eat,  and  drink,  and  die ; 

Be  through  your  life  a  thing  of  naught, 

Perish  in  night,  and  banish Thought. 


THE  MARCH  OF  MIND. 

I  STOOD  upon  a  ray  of  light 
When  time  had  just  begun, 

When  chaos  leaped  from  ancient  night 
And  fled  before  the  sun ; 


DESCRIPTIVE,   ETC.  155 

I  saw  the  sparkling  atoms  meet 

That  formed  each  mighty  star, 
And  worlds  careering  at  my  feet 

In  ether's  depths  afar. 

Each  in  its  order  took  its  place, 

And  marched  its  circles  round, 
Each  bright  inhabitant  of  space 

Knew  his  allotted  bound ; 
I  marveled  how  so  many  gems, 

Linked  in  each  other's  rays, 
Could  all  perform  their  stated  times, 

Their  seasons,  and  their  days. 

Again,  I  stood  upon  a  cloud, 

The  fields  were  green  below, 
The  trees  were  trimmed,  the  earth  was  ploughed, 

And  corn  began  to  grow ; 
And  man  was  there  with  loftymien, 

To  art  and  science  joined, 
With  taste  to  beautify  the  scene, 

And  with  a  glorious  mind. 

And  now  the  Universe  began 

Its  mysteries  to  unfold, 
Before  the  searching  eye  of  man 

Its  revelations  rolled ; 
Astronomy,  with  Newton  came, 

Its  mighty  laws  to  prove ; 
And  Franklin  drew  the  electric  flame 

From  the  abode  of  Jove. 

Again,  I  stood  upon  the  beach 
Of  a  pellucid  stream, 


156  MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL, 

A  thousand  flowers  were  in  my  reach, 

And  every  eye  did  beam 
With  rapture,  as  I  gazed  among 

The  happy  beings  there  ; 
The  old  were  playing  with  the  young, 

And  all  were  free  from  care. 

Perfection  dwelt  in  every  mind — 

Man  had  his  summit  gained, 
With  every  excellence  combined, 

Without  an  error  stained ; 
A  thousand  blessings  round  him  flowed 

Where'er  he  sat  or  roved — 
A  paradise  was  his  abode, 

And  all  he  saw,  he  loved. 


OUR   OLD    HOUSE. 

THEY'VE  razed  our  cottage  to  the  ground- 
Our  ancient  cot  with  trees  around, 
That  stood  a  little  from  the  read- 
just far  enough  for  love's  abode  ; 
Knights  of  the  adze  and  chisel,  they 
Pried  off  the  boards  to  my  dismay. 
Their  ruthless  deeds  I  do  deplore — 
Our  poor  old  house  is  now  no  more. 

They  tore  the  lath  and  shingles  off; 
And  then  they  raised  the  jeer  and  scotf, 
To  see  the  aged  rafters  bare, 
And  reel,  and  tremble  in  the  air , 


DESCRIPTIVE,  ETC.  157 

And  mocked  me  when  I  dropped  a  tear, 
(For  every  beam  to  me  was  dear,) 
As  I  looked  on  with  feelings  sore— 
Our  poor  old  house  is  now  no  more. 


Each  unhewn  clapboard  bore  a  name- 
Some  unsophisticated  dame, 
That  lived  in  my  grand-mother's  day — 
Before  the  men  learned  to  betray ; 
These  names  some  tales  of  love  could  tell — 
What  strange  events,  and  what  befell 
True  lovers  in  the  days  of  yore — 
But  our  old  house  is  now  no  more. 

Ah  !  when  they  tore  its  beams  apart, 

They  tore  the  strings  that  tied  my  heart ; 

And  when  I  saw  the  rafters  fall, 

I  felt  as  though  I'd  lost  my  all ; 

No  marvel,  that  I  wept  to  see 

The  home  of  age  and  infancy, 

Lie  prostrate  on  the  splintered  floor — 

Our  poor  old  house  is  now  no  more. 

Those  ample  chimney  corners  old, 
Whose  every  brick  some  legend  told— 
They  knocked  them  down  with  bars  of  steel ! 
And  notwithstanding  my  appeal 
Some  relic  of  the  pile  to  spare, 
They  have  not  left  a  vestige  there  ; 
They  burnt  the  latch  that  closed  the  door— 
Our  poor  old  house  is  now  no  more. 
14 


158  MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL, 

Our  cot  was  neither  red  or  white, 
Or  any  other  color  quite  ; 
It  might  have  once  been  painted  red, 
But  late  its  hue  approached  to  lead ; 
And  oh !  it  looked  divinely  fair, 
Between  the  rows  of  peach  and  pear : 
Its  roof  with  moss  was  covered  o'er — 
Our  poor  old  house  is  now  no  more. 

And  what  was  this  destruction  for — 
This  desolating  deed  of  war  1 
Pride  came— and  pointed  to  the  low 
Old  fashioned  roof,  and  gave  the  blow. 
A  finer  building  proudly  rears 
Its  front — and  clothed  in  paint  appears, 
Near  to  the  site  where  stood  before, 
The  poor  old  house  that's  now  no  more. 


THE   REVOLUTIONARY  SOLDIER,    WITHOUT  A  PENSION. 

YE  dwellers  in  fair  freedom's  land, 
Can  ye  so  soon  forget  the  b'and, 
The  dear  memorial  of  the  day 
That  tried  the  soul — now  old  and  gray — 
And  hear  them  marching  to  that  "bourne 
From  whence  no  travellers  return"—- 
Of  base  ingratitude  complain : 
The  poor  old  heroes  that  remain. 

Can  you  behold  that  gallant  race 
Leaving  the  rank?  of  life-  u\  u<.-<  . 


DESCRIPTIVE,  ETC.  159 

With  the  bold  impress  on  their  brow 
Of  Freedom's  chosen  champions — now ! 
Though  withered  be  that  brow,  and  bare, 
By  sorrow,  age,  neglect  and  care — 
To  close  their  wretched  lives  in  pain : 
The  brave  old  heroes  who  remain  1 

Ah !  will  you  revel  on  the  soil 
They  purchased  with  their  blood  and  toil — 
And  wear  the  honors  of  their  name, 
Without  a  thrilling  sense  of  shame ; — 
Yes,  while  your  actions  would  declare 
They  their  own  purchase  shall  not  share — 
Say,  shall  such  foul  dishonor  stain 
The  country  where  they  still  remain  1 

Americans — say  will  you  see 
The  men  who  gave  you  liberty, 
Their  broken  columns  scattered  o'er, 
Like  trophies,  this  our  happy  shore, 
And  basely,  niggardly  resign 
The  glorious  right  to  call  them  thine  1 
Ah !  no — such  treasures  dear  retain : 
Cherish  the  heroes  who  remain. 

Shall  it  in  future  time  be  told, 

These  veterans  gray,  these  heroes  old, 

The  patriot  soldier  and  the  sage, 

In  misery  closed  his  pilgrimage  *? 

Forbid  it,  honor,  gratitude, 

And  all  that's  noble,  just  and  good ; 

From  such  impiety  refrain, 

And  shield  the  heroes  who  remain. 


160  MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL, 

Should  poverty  upon  them  weigh, 
Like  Brutus,  coin  your  hearts  to  pay, 
And  task  your  hands,  and  mind,  and  soul, 
To  make  their  broken  spirits  whole ; — 
Then  on  their  own  domestic  floor, 
Let  them  enact  their  battles  o'er 
And  o'er — until  they  feel  again 
Themselves — the  heroes  who  remain. 

Thus  let  the  laurels  proudly  wave 
Around  the  bravest  of  the  brave, 
And  green,  and  gloriously  entwine 
The  Revolutionary  line ; 
And  let  a  nation's  wealth  attend 
The  veteran  to  his  journey's  end — 
Embalm  the  memory  of  the  slain, 
And  crown  the  heroes  who  remain. 


THE  FIRST  DAY  OF  SPRING. 

AWAY  Mr.  Winter,  I  tell  you  be  off—- 
You've been  bawling  so  long  you  are  hoarse  with  a  cough  ; 
Put  your  icicles  up,  and  your  walking-stick  on — 
Your  coat's  growing  old,  sir — I  bid  you  begone. 

Your  trade  it  is  done,  sir,  or  ought  to  be,  here  ; 

Do  you  wish  to  forge  chains  for  us  all  the  long  year  1 

You  have  frozen  and  thawed  us  quite  often  enough — 

Begone,  you  old  rascal,  I  bid  you  to  buff. 


DESCRIPTIVE,  ETC.  161 

You're  a  heartless  old  tyrant,  as  many  can  tell, 
You  have  frozen  to  death,  or  indeed  might  as  well ; 
You  have  robbed  them  of  cash,  and  robbed  them  of  bi 
And  supperless  many  you've  hastened  to  bed. 

You  have  torn  down  our  fences,  our  orchards  have  rei 
And  numbers  to  beg  or  starvation  have  sent — 
You  have  ravaged  our  cellars,  and  in  our  cribs  stole — 
You  wicked  old  varlet,  go  home  to  your  pole. 

1  am  weary  of  seeing  your  physiog  here, 

And  so  is  my  heifer,  and  so  is  my  steer ; 

You  have  pinched  my  Aunt  Jenny  with  many  a  gripe, 

And  if  you  don't  travel  I'll  give  you  a  wipe. 

Good  Winter,  my  dear,  when  you  first  made  your  bow, 
And  appeared  with  so  modest  and  humble  a  brow, 
I  thought  to  bid  welcome  a  good  natured  chap, 
But,  by  Georgy,  I  made  a  most  wretched  mishap. 

Oh !  how  will  you  pay  for  the  damage  you've  done — 

You  testy  old  cruiser,  you  crabbed  old  crone — 

The  heads  on  the  pavement  the  heels  in  the  air 

You  have  sent,  and  the  blows  you  have  dealt  to  the  fair  7 

I  know  how  you  pay  all  the  debts  you  may  owe : 
'Tis  by  knocking  us  down,  and  repeating  the  blow — 
You  stern  looking  caitiff,  you  robber  of  yore, 
This  year  you  have  floored  us  full  fifty  times  o'er. 

Return  to  your  corner,  retire  to  your  den. 
You're  not  fit  to  live  with  the  children  of  men — 
Your  power  is  o'erthrown,  your  no  longer  a  king, 
Lo  !  the  victory's  won,  by  the  first  day  of  Spring. 
H* 


162  MORAL,    SENTIMENTAL, 


THE   PLOUGHMAN. 

THE  Ploughman  turns  up  the  teeming  sod, 

A  she  whistles  on  his  way, 
In  the  steps  of  truth,  he  hath  always  trod  ; 
He  loves  the  earth,  and  he  worships  God, 

And  the  Ploughman  is  blithe  and  gay. 

He  is  hailed  with  joy  by  the  robin  red, 

As  he  walketh  out  at  morn, 
And  the  dews  are  brushed  by  his  earnest  tread, 
As  he  worketh  late  for  his  children's  bread, 

Among  the  wheat  and  corn. 

The  flowers  blossom  around  his  feet, 

And  the  air  that  he  breathes  is  balm  ; 
His  days  and  nights  with  gladness  meet, 
And  his  sleep  is  sound,  and  his  dream  is  sweet, 
And  his  life  an  unruffled  calm. 

Health  painteth  his  cheek,  and  lights  his  eye, 

And  his  nerves  are  stout  £nd  strong ; 
The  pestilence  passeth  unheeded  by, 
For  sickness  the  Ploughman  doth  defy, 
And  his  evening  of  life  is  long. 

He  trusteth  the  morrow  will  be  as  bright, 

And  as  beautiful  as  to-day  ; 
For  the  cherub  of  hope  hovers  over  his  night, 
With  a  promise  of  joy,  that  the  morning  light 

A  blessing  will  bring  alway. 


DESCRIPTIVE,  ETC.  163 

With  the  little  he  hath  he  is  content, 

His  plough  and  his  rood  of  lea ; 
He  knoweth  the  earth  and  its  things  are  lent, 
And  that  virtue  and  honesty  pay  the  rent, 

And  a  happy  man  is  he. 


THE    CRISIS. 

THERE  is  an  awful  crisis  near 
At  hand ; 

Clashing  sword  and  glittering  spear — 

Agonies  of  death  I  hear — 

Ye  who  love  your  country  dear, 
Band! 

See  the  crimson  current  flowing 

Warm, 

And  the  fires  of  battle  glowing, 
Hear  the  herds  of  cattle  lowing, 
And  fair  Freedom's  herald  blowing — 
Arm! 

Russia's  bear,  and  Britain's  lion, 
Growl ; 

Tyrants  whet  their  cursed  iron, 

To  cut  down  young  Freedom's  scion ; 

Hear  the  foes  of  this  our  Zion 
Howl! 

Hear  the  shock,  and  see  the  breaking 
Flame ; 


164  MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL, 

Kings  conspiring,  empires  shaking, 
Maddened  millions  now  awaking — 
Cannon  on  the  hills  are  taking 
Aim! 

Hark  !  the  people's  revolution 
Cries 

Loud  for  help  and  retribution ; 

Free  the  earth  from  kings'  pollution, 

Rights  of  man  from  prostitution — 
Rise! 

'Tis  no  time  to  dream  and  ponder, 
Son 

Of  the  Revolution ; — yonder 

Tyrant  bandits  yelp  for  plunder  ; 

Haste,  let  Freedom's  army  thunder 
On! 

Fix  the  bayonet  and  gory 
Pike; 

Yours  is  an  immortal  glory, 

Endless  song  and  endless  story ; 

Free  the  world  from  tyrants  hoary — 
Strike! 


WAR. 

OH  !  let  no  factious  discontent, 
No  morbid  traitor  sentiment, 

Or  soul-subduing  fear, 
Prevent  or  paralyze  the  blow 
On  Freedom's  lurking  robber  foe, 

If  hostile  he  appear. 


DESCRIPTIVE,  ETC.  165 

We  have  a  double  work  to  do, 
Our  honor  and  our  country,  too, 

Demand  our  utmost  care  ; 
Our  honor,  if  it  brook  a  stain, 
Can  never  shine  so  bright  again, 

Unsullied  and  fair. 

Our  honored  nation's  high  repute, 
No  coward  caitiff  tongue  should  bruit 

With  ignominy  and  shame  ; 
Pure  as  the  blood  its  hero's  shed, 
And  sacred  as  its  hallowed  dead, 

Must  ever  be  her  fame. 

Oh !  would  I  had  ten  thousand  scars, 
Received  in  fighting  Freedom's  wars — 

How  proud  of  them  E'd  be  ; 
Higher  I'd  value  them  than  gold 
Or  silver  coin — a  thousand  fold 

Than  life  itself  to  me. 

Not  that  I  love  the  toil  and  strife 
Of  the  brave  soldier's  fearful  life, 

Through  carnage,  blood,  and  toil ; 
Not  that  I  love  the  march  by  night, 
Nor  yet  the  horrid  din  and  fight 

Of  men  in  deadly  broil. 

Ah !  no,  I  would  not  war  for  these — 
Such  scenes  my  heart  could  never  please 

If  there  were  nothing  more  ; 
Dear  Liberty— for  thee— for  thee— 
My  passion,  my  idolatry — 

My  heart's  last  drop  should  pour. 


166  MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL, 

Yes,  free  and  fast  as  Summer  rain, 
I'd  empty  every  bleeding  vein, 

And  without  stint  or  care  ; 
And  when  at  last  I  had  no  more 
Upon  her  rescued  sod  to  pour, 

I'd  give  my  dying  prayer. 


SUPERSTITION. 

I'VE  seen  the  life  consuming  sons 

Of  Afric's  gold-bespangled  shore, 
Wasting  their  strength  in  torrid  zones, 

Country  and  friends  to  see  no  more — 
To  see  them  thus  condemned  to  toil 

Perpetual,  gave  me  greatest  pain, 
Fettered  unto  a  deadly  soil — 

I  gladly  would  have  broke  the  chain. 

I've  seen  the  serf  of  Russia  fall 
Before  a  ruthless  tyrant's  hand  ; 

He  struck  him  thrice  against  the  wall- 
He  fell— alas  !  oh  Christian  land  ! 

But  this  was  done  in  passion's  hour, 
When  reason  slept  upon  her  throne — 

It  was  a  deed  of  barb'rous  power 
I  left  with  conscience  to  atone. 

And  in  our  own  bird-singing  land, 
Where  freedom  holds  her  jubilee, 

I've  seen  a  dark  desponding  band 
Wear  the  fell  yoke  of  slavery— 


DESCRIPTIVE,  ETC.  167 

To  see  my  fellow  creature  borne 

Down  like  a  brute  unto  the  sod, 
I  weep  with  pity  and  I  mourn, 

And  wish  the  oppressor  bore  the  rod — 


Such  forms  of  slavery  I  can  bear, 

(With  pain  and  grief,  indeed,)  to  see ; 
There  is  some  consolation  there — 

The  mind  is  yet  unfettered — free. 
But  when  I  saw  my  dearest  friend 

Nailed  down  to  Superstition's  car, 
The  very  sight  my  heart  did  rend, 
And  with  that  blood-stained  demon  fiend, 

I  swore  eternal  war. 


THE   STREAM   OF  TIME. 

THE  stream  of  life  is  rolling  on ; 

A  few  short  years  and  youth  is  gone, 

And  age  comes  weeping  round  us ; 
We're  tending  downward  to  the  dust, 
The  place  where  man  was  formed  at  first ; 

Life  leaves  us  where  it  found  us. 

We  won't  believe  wer'e  growing  old, 
Although  a  tale  so  often  told 

By  sickness  and  by  sorrow ; 
The  strength  and  beauty  ours  to-day, 
We  to  ourselves  in  secret  say, 

Will  still  be  ours  to-morrow. 


168  MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL, 

We  won't  believe  that  death  is  nigh, 
Although  he  daily  passes  by — 

'Tis  not  to  us  he's  speaking  ; 
That  poor  old  man  who  yonder  stands, 
With  tottering  step  and  trembling  hand — 

'Tis  him  we  say  he's  seeking. 

Although  the  leaves  around  us  fall, 
And  loud  a  thousand  voices  call, 

We  do  not  think  of  dying  ; 
Some  fond  delight,  some  pleasure  dear, 
We  still  pursue  from  year  to  year, 

Some  new  illusion  trying. 

Are  we  awake,  or  do  we  dream 
Over  this  oft  repeated  theme, 

So  deeply  interesting, 
I  wonder,  as  I  set  alone, 
Upon  this  cold  sequestered  stone, 

From  daily  labor  resting. 

Have  we  our  senses  when  we  see 
The  trophies  of  his  victory 

Time  scatters  round  our  dwelling — 
The  stern  mementoes  of  decay, 
That  rise  around  us  every  day, 

Into  a  mountain  swelling  1 

Alas !  we  are  awake  to  all 
The  vanities  that  on  us  call — 

We  ne'er  refuse  them,  never  ; 
But  oh  !  ourselves,  our  destiny. 
We  cannot,  or  we  will  not  see, 

'Till  life  is  gone  forever. 


DESCRIPTIVE,  ETC.  169 


THE  SOLACE  OF  AGE. 

AND  is  there  no  joy  for  the  blossoming  head 

When  hope  in  the  breast  feels  decay, 
And  the  season  of  pleasure  and  beauty  have  fled, 

And  the  glory  of  youth  fades  away  1 

When  the  flowers  of  life  are  beginning  to  fade, 

And  its  verdure  is  seen  to  depart, 
And  its  sun  to  the  east  casts  a  lengthening  shade, 

What  can  then  give  delight  to  the  heart  1 

When  the  cheek  is  the  path  of  the  fast-falling  tear, 

And  a  dimness  comes  over  the  eye, 
And  gaiety  sounds  like  a  knell  to  the  ear, 

And  mirth  is  beheld  with  a  sigh  ; 

When  the  cypress  and  willow  shall  pensively  wave 
O'er  the  friend  that  was  generous  and  kind. 

And  the  gray  leaves  of  autumn  shall  fall  on  the  grave, 
Of  the  last  one  that  lingered  behind ; 

When  life  proves  a  phantom,  a  being  of  air, 

A  bubble  that's  tossed  on  the  sea — 
And  its  evening  is  all  overshadowed  with  care, 

And  death  with  its  mockery  ; 

When  youth,  with  its  smiles  and  loveliness  gone, 
Leaves  a  wreck,  and  a  ringlet  of  snow, 

And  the  soul  puts  a  mantle  of  gloominess  on— 
Where — where — shall  such  loneliness  go  ^ 
15 


170  MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL, 

And  musing,  I  thought,  if  the  loveliest  rose, 

That  blooms  in  the  blushes  of  morn, 
While  budding  thus  early,  a  sting  doth  enclose, 

Who  can  bear  with  the  desolate  tborn  1 

And  I  asked  of  the  good,  and  implored  of  the  wise, 

If  a  world  that  was  better  they  knew  1 
And  they  lifted  their  eyes  to  the  gold  sparkling  skies 

And  the  bright  spangled  mansions  of  blue. 

And  they  pointed  afar  to  the  uttermost  star, 

And  the  curtain  of  Heaven  they  drew — 
Then  a  glorious  sight  of  joy  and  delight, 

Burst  on  my  enraptured  view. 

There  the  wretched  may  come,  there's  the  aged's  sweet  home, 

And  I  sigh  for  that  beautiful  shore  ; 
And  the  sweet  garland  rose  that  in  Paradise  grows, 

Where  the  thorn  is  permitted  no  more. 


CELESTIAL  MUSINGS. 

OH  !  I  am  sorely  grieved  and  vexed — 
My  soul  is  harrassed  and  perplexed 

By  an  unusual  care ; 
L('or  since  existence  first  begun, 
My  thoughts  have  not  like  others  run 
They've  led  me  round  from  zone  to  zone, 

To  guess  what's  doing  there. 

The  secrets  of  the  earth  I've  scanned, 
And  found  how  beautiful  'tis  planned, 


DESCRIPTIVE,  ETC. 

Beneficent  and  wise ; 
But  oh !  the  soul  that  never  tires 
To  things  forbidden  oft  aspires — 
My  insatiate  spirit  now  desires 

Acquaintance  with  the  skies. 

I  long  to  visit  worlds  around — 
To  see  creation's  utmost  bound, 

'Till  nothing  more  appears  ; 
To  bid  good  morrow  to  the  moon, 
And  banquet  with  the  sun  at  noon, 
And  learn  the  soft  melodious  tune, 

Played  by  celestial  spheres. 

But  not  content  whole  worlds  to  scan, 
I  fain  would  learn  the  state  of  man 

In  worlds  immensely  far ; 
I  ponder  and  I  agonize 
To  know  his  shape,  and  age,  and  size, 

In  every  shining  star ; 

To  learn  how  people  travel  there, 
Whether  in  steamboat  or  the  air, 

Or  swim,  or  walk,  or  fly — 
And  which  the  wisest  there  appears, 
The  one  that  lectures  most  or  hears, 
Or  he  that  stops  his  tongue  and  ears, 

And  listless  passes  by ; 

If  women  handsome  are  or  plain, 
Or  truth  is  sought  for  most  or  gain, 
Or  men  or  women  rule ; 


171 


172  MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL, 

If  patriots  to  prate  are  hired, 
Or  genius  is  by  puffing  fired, 
And  which  by  all  is  most  admired 
The  wise  man  or  the  fool ; 

And  if  the  poor  be  blest  with  laws, 
And  if  the  rich  obtain  their  cause — 

Or  who  to  prison  go  ; 
Or  if  the  trees  be  green  or  red, 
Or  silver  money  be,  or  lead, 
Or  wit  lies  in  the  purse  or  head — 

Such  things  I  sigh  to  know. 


SUMMER'S  GONE. 

I'M  tired  of  leaves,  and  flowers  and  trees, 
So  fleeting  and  so  frail  as  these, 

That  change  their  hues  so  soon ; 
For,  hardly  have  my  thoughts  begun 
To  banquet  Nature's  feast  upon, 

Before  its  sweets  are  gone. 

I  fain  would  live  a  thousand  years, 

And  breathe  the  balm,  and  drink  the  tears, 

Of  flowers  that  bloom  so  long ; 
And  gladly  grow  a  rosy  gem, 
And  be  a  flower  like  one  of  them, 

To  dwell  their  scenes  among. 

Then  would  I  feast  my  inmost  soul 
Upon  their  sweets,  without  control, 
Nor  be  alarmed  to  see 


DESCRIPTIVE,  ETC.  173 

The  yellow  leaf  and  blossom  fall, 
And  mingle  with  the  mildew  all 
Their  forms  of  gaiety. 

Now  the  soft  shade  of  lovely  green, 
That  throws  a  charm  o'er  every  scene, 

I  see  depart  with  pain ; 
Of  life  uncertain,  lo !  I  fear 
Spring's  resurrection  day  will  ne'er 

Revisit  me  again. 

I  see  the  sun  with  glory  crowned, 
Setting  and  leaving  smiles  around, 

Yet  not  without  a  sigh, 
Lest  when  the  morning  shall  awake, 
Nor  field,  or  flower,  or  forest  break 

Upon  my  stricken  eye. 

Ye  flowers,  I  love  ye  far  too  well 
On  such  uncertain  terms  to' dwell 

As  Nature  grants  us  here ; 
Oh !  for  an  everlasting  lease  ^ 

Of  some  sweet  isle  among  the  seas, 

Of  the  celestial  sphere. 

Amid  the  thousand  stars  that  shine, 
May  there  not  one,  with  flowers  divine, 

To  men  of  truth  be  given  1 
One  little  brilliant  island  star, 
Where  innocence  and  love  may  wear 

The  livery  of  Heaven. 
15* 


174  MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL, 

THE   DROP   OF   WATER. 

I  CAUGHT  a  drop  of  water, 

While  sitting  on  the  sand — 
A  little  drop  of  water — 

And  held  it  in  my  hand ; 
Then  through  some  optic  glasses, 

This  ocean  I  surveyed — 
This  little  mimic  ocean — 

And  well  I  was  repaid. 

I  saw  ten  thousand  creatures 

Within  its  modest  bounds, 
Diversified  in  features, 

Swimming  their  various  rounds ; 
I  magnified  the  circle, 

By  regular  degrees, 
Until  this  drop  of  water 

Seemed  large  as  ocean  seas. 

Then  I  discovered  islands, 

"Within  this  fluid  sphere, 
But  they  were  floating  islands, 

And  steered  each  other  clear ; 
Their  surfaces  were  covered 

With  living  beings  round, 
And  they  moved  along  their  orbits 

With  gravity  profound. 

Then  came  conviction  fairly, 
Nor  doubt  while  I  rehearse, 

This  little  drop  of  water 
Contained  a  universe ; 


DESCRIPTIVE,  ETC.  175 

Its  walls  were  built  of  crystal, 

For  solar  light  I  ween, 
But  in  its  very  centre, 

Another  sun  was  seen. 


Each  little  globe  or  island 

Had  a  peculiar  race, 
And  some,  I  thought,  among  them, 

Looked  like  the  human  face ; 
But  every  form  and  feature, 

That  wildest  thought  could  frame, 
Appeared  among  the  numbers, 

Impossible  to  name. 

The  mad  imagination 

Of  poet  never  drew, 
Upon  his  crazy  fancy, 

So  wonderful  a  view ; 
Shapes  of  such  strange  cohesion, 

Ne'er  crossed  the  human  brain, 
And  come,  I  hope  they'll  never, 

Across  my  own  again. 

Nor  fever  in  its  raging, 

Nor  frenzy  in  its  fear, 
Could  make  such  apparitions 

To  mortal  eyes  appear ; 
Why  should  they  1    Can  the  senses, 

If  sound,  or  chaos  hurled, 
Conceive  the  new  creation, 

That  throngs  a  stranger  world  7 


176  MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL, 

But  from  this  observation, 

So  painful  to  the  sight, 
I  caught  a  ray  of  knowledge, 

That  gave  me  great  delight : 
'Twas  that  the  great  Creator, 

Still  to  the  human  mind, 
Deigns  to  unlock  his  treasures, 

Unbounded,  unconfined. 


A   FAMILY   A   HUNDRED   TEARS   AGO. 

I  SAW  Content,  the  other  day, 
Sit  by  her  spinning  wheel ; 

And  Plenty  in  a  wooden  tray, 
Of  wheat  and  Indian  meal. 

Health,  also,  at  a  table  sat, 

Dining  upon  a  ham ; 
But  Appetite*  demanded  yet, 

A  cabbage  and  a  clam. 

Wealth  sat  enthroned  upon  a  green 

And  fragrant  load  of  hay ; 
And  Happiness  beheld  a  dog, 

Behind  a  cart  at  play. 

Delight  was  chasing  butterflies, 
With  Laughter  and  with  Joy ; 

Affection  gazed  with  ardent  eyes, 
Upon  the  sweet  employ. 


DESCRIPTIVE,  ETC.  177 

Beauty  was  watering  a  flower, 

Beside  the  cottage  door ; 
And  Pleasure  spoke  about  a  tour, 

To  Mr.  Staple's  store. 

Industry  bid  good-morrow,  and 

Invited  me  to  tea ; 
But  Folly  bid  me  stay  away, 

Unless  I  came  with  Glee. 

Patience  sat  in  an  easy  chair, 

Unraveling  a  skein, 
While  Mirth  with  roguish  eye  and  air, 

Would  tangle  it  again. 

Benevolence  had  built  a  tower 

Of  pudding,  bread,  and  meat, 
And  bid  compassion  take  it  o'er 

To  Want,  across  the  street. 

But  I  was  gratified  to  see, 

Easy,  and  free,  and  fair, 
With  Innocence  upon  his  knee, 

Old  Satisfaction  there. 


Sport  took  me  by  the  hand,  and  led 

Me  down  a  vista  green, 
While  Fun  and  Frolic  antics  played, 

Two  ancient  oaks  between. 

But  best  of  all,  it  was  to  find 
Prudence,  the  day  before, 


178  MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL, 

The  fopling  Dress  had  kicked  behind, 
And  tossed  him  out  of  door. 

And  now,  kind  reader,  if  you  choose, 

This  family  to  know, 
A  farmer's  here  I'll  introduce, 

"  A  hundred  years  ago." 


THE  SNOW-BIRD. 

WHERE  do  you  in  creation  dwell — 
In  what  sequestered  hidden  cell, 

Or  whence  come  ye  and  go  1 
Whilst  other  birds  warm  in  the  day, 
Sing  to  the  Summer,  green  and  gay, 
Your  bough  is  vacant,  and  your  lay 

Waits  for  the  banks  of  snow. 

Ye  come  so  strangely — when  we  wake 
And  first  behold  the  icy  flake 

Whirled  from  its  volcano  ! — 
I  fancy  with  the  cloud  ye  stroll 
That's  first  commissioned  from  the  pole  ; 
Or  through  our  Captain  Symmes'  hole, 

Ye  come  with  hail  and  snow. 

My  little  feathered  pioneer, 
Some  diplomatic  trick,  I  fear, 

You  do  perplex  me  so — 
To  see  you  round  my  window  pop, 
Just  as  the  Winter's  arrows  drop, 
I  spy  the  traitor  in  your  hop, 

You  minister  of  snow. 


DESCRIPTIVE,  ETC.  179 

When  Winter  comes  with  terrors  dire, 
J  close  around  the  cheerful  fire 

And  with  the  bellows  blow ; 
But  you,  my  little  wandering  elf, 
Comfortable  and  warm  yourself, 
Despise  my  house,  and  fire,  and  shelf, 

And  choose  a  realm  of  snow. 


Where  do  you  lay  yourself  at  night, 
When  frost  doth  like  a  blackguard  bite — 

Dost  in  the  hay-mow  stow  7 
Or,  fired  with  elemental  pride, 
Upon  the  whirling  tempest  ride  ; 
Or  cosily  and  snugly  hide 

Beneath  a  wreath  of  snow  1 

1  wonder  if  my  courtesy 

Ye  will  despise,  perchance  that  I 

Some  barley  seeds  bestow ; 
Ah !  no,  you've  gratitude,  'tis  plain — 
Ye  gaily  sup  upon  the  grain, 
And  then,  like  ladies  when  they  strain, 

Ye  take  a  dish  of  snow. 

Ye  are  a  saucy,  taunting  race— 
Ye  tell  my  cousins  to  their  face 

That  they  are  chickens'  O  ! 
They  sleep  all  winter  in  the  house, 
Companions  of  the  moth  and  mouse. 
While  ye  around  the  air  carouse 

Amid  the  flakes  of  snow. 


180  MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL, 

I  grant  you  courage,  but  your  leer 
Hath  something  like  the  sign,  I  fear, 

Of  "  Cloven  Heels  and  Co.;" 
If  that  be  so,  ye'll  meet  no  harm, 
For  that  old  Bossy  hath  a  charm 
To  keep  his  chums  and  workmen  warm 

Tho'  they  be  made  of  snow. 

But  what  your  errand,  whence  ye  came, 
Or  what  your  policy  or  aim, 

One  certain  thing  I  know, 
When  e'er  you  visit  me  again, 
That  I  shall  see  the  night  hath  lain 
On  my  embroidered  window  pane, 

A  pretty  wreath  of  snow. 


THE    FOWLER. 

I'LL  BUILD  me  a  bower  by  the  side  of  the  bay, 
Where  the  coot,  and  the  dipper,  and  merry-wing  play  : 
Of  the  green-tufted  cedar  that  grows  on  the  beach. 
And  I'll  sit  me  down  there,  with  my  gun  in  my  reach — 
And  the  old  wife  may  sing,  to  her  merry  offspring, 
But  it  may  be  the  last  of  her  musical  speech. 

She  has  enemies  near  that  I  very  well  know, 

And  they're  laying  in  wait  in  an  ambush  of  tow  ; 

They  are  swift  as  the  lightning  and  cruel  as  Cain. 

And  they  ask  for  no  quarter  or  give  it  again ; 

And  the  broad-bill  to-day,  he  may  winnow  the  spray, 

Hut  the  move  of  my  finger— and  lo !  he  is  slain 


DESCRIPTIVE,  ETC.  181 

I  have  bought  me  a  Hint  that  is  taper  and  true, 
And  I've  fastened  it  in  with  an  excellent  screw, 
And  a  beaver  of  white,  and  a  wrapper  of  green, 
And  I  guess  that  the  brant  had  not  better  be  seen  ; 
Altho'  she  may  chat,  and  grow  wanton  and  fat, 
If  she  come  a  rod  further  I  speak  for  her  lean. 

I  have  made  me  a  flask  of  the  buffalo's  horn, 
And  a  pouch  from  the  foot  of  an  albatross  torn  ; 
And  I  moccasins  wear  of  the  sea-horse's  mail, 
And  I've  tasseled  them  off  with  a  drum-fish's  tail ; 
And  the  wild  goose  may  fly  with  the  scud  of  the  sky, 
If  she  passes  me  over  her  pinion  shall  fail. 

My  gun  is  well  loaded,  and  now  I  will  prime, 

Then  sleep  with  one  eye  only  shut  at  a  time  ; 

And  if  they  approach  me,  the  black  duck  or  drake, 

I  guess  they  will  find  me  about  half  awake ; 

They  may  sputter  and  quack,  but  my  aim  they  shan't  balk, 

And  I'm  sure  that  a  hole  in  their  gizzard  I'll  make. 

'Tis  delicious  to  dine  on  a  dainty  wild  goose, 
With  good  turnip-sauce,  and  the  friends  that  we  choose, 
And  to  tell  them  while  eating  how  patient  we  laid, 
'Till  the  old  gander  marched  to  the  field  of  parade — 
And  with  mirth  and  good  cheer,  to  end  the  old  year, 
With  a  bone  for  my  dog  and  a  health  to  my  maid. 


WHERE  HAVE   THEY  GONE. 

WHERE  have  they  gone  each  pretty  one, 
With  me  that  gathered  flowers; 
16 


182  MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL, 

How  far  removed  from  those  they  loved 
In  childhood's  happy  hours  1 

Where  have  they  fled,  the  dimples  red, 

Each  rosy  gushing  feature, 
That  played  with  me  down  by  the  sea, 

A  happy  joyful  creature  1 

The  little  feet  that  used  to  meet 

The  tender  violet's  kisses, 
How  far  have  they  wandered  away 

From  infant  smiles  and  blisses  1 

Perchance  the  child  who  helped  me  build 
The  tower  of  blooming  daisies, 

On  desert  sands  in  foreign  lands, 
Pursues  life's  weary  mazes ; 

Far  from  the  green  enchanted  scene, 

By  memory  consecrated, 
His  steps  have  toiled  through  many  a  wild, 

Bewildered  and  belated. 

Or  he  may  dwell  within  a  cell, 
Poor,  happy,  and  contented —  . 

Or  palace  great,  proud  and  elate, 
By  Eastern  fragrance  scented. 

What  e'er  his  lot,  palace  or  grot, 
One  thing  I'm  sure  he'll  never 

Forget  the  earth  that  gave  him  birth, 
His  native  hills  and  river. 


DESCRIPTIVE,  ETC.  183 

When  pressed  with  cares,  his  mind  repairs 

To  balmy  sleep's  embraces, 
The  glowing  theme  of  all  his  dream 

Is  childhood's  pleasant  places. 

The  urchins  dear,  again  appear, 

And  seem  to  chide  his  slumbers  ; 

'  Awake  !"  they  cry,  and  playfully 

He  seems  to  join  their  numbers. 

And  when  old  age  looks  o'er  the  page 

Of  every  past  impression, 
It  marks  with  care,  the  chapter  where 

Childhood  was  its  possession. 

Those  beauteous  lines,  as  life  declines, 

Of  rosy  hill  and  meadow, 
Each  year  renews  with  milder  hues, 

In  times  receding  shadow. 

Ah !  they  have  gone,  each  playful  one, 

And  left  me  sad  and  lonely  ; 
Some  to  the  tomb,  while  others  roam — 

They've  left  me,  and  me  only. 


THE    MYSTERY    OF    LIFE. 

OH  !  Life  is  a  problem  I  fain  would  solve, 
As  its  days  depart,  and  its  years  revolve  ; 
The  sunshine  of  joy,  and  the  cloud  of  grief, 
That  over  us  pass,  like  our  moments  brief ; 


184  MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL, 

The  exulting  hope,  and  the  fell  despair. 
And  the  reason  that  tells  not  what  we  are, 
But  that  we  were  born,  and  soon  must  die, 
And  that  life  is  a  dark,  deep  mystery. 


All  things  an  enigma  are— dark  indeed — 
That  the  thoughts  of  man  are  wont  to  feed, 
As  he  sits  alone  in  his  pensive  mood, 
And  reflects  on  Nature's  still  solitude  ; 
When  her  hand  has  pressed  to  their  pillow  all 
That  graced  his  portal,  or  filled  his  hall ; 
'Tis  there  he  sees,  and  exclaims  with  a  sigh, 
That  all  things  in  life,  are  a  mystery. 

A  mystic  melody  sings  the  sea, 

As  it  rushes  on  to  its  destiny, 

And  a  harp  appears  on  the  wind  to  sail, 

In  the  tempest  loud,  and  the  evening  gale, 

And  the  clouds  that  fly  on  their  shapeless  wings, 

The  shadows  appear  of  unearthly  things  ; 

There  is  more  in  their  motions  than  meets  the  eye, 

But  all  is  concealed  in  a  mystery. 

The  hovering  leaf  that  protects  the  flower, 

'Neath  its  sheltering  wings,  from  the  pelting  shower, 

Yet  still  as  the  grateful  moisture  falls, 

Distills  it  safe  in  its  cistern's  walls, 

To  cherish  the  gem  within  its  folds, 

As  a  mother  does  the  infant  she  holds  ; 

There  is  wisdom  in  this,  and  a  sweet  beauty, 

But  wove  in  a  web  of  mystery. 


DESCRIPTIVE,  ETC.  185 

The  birds  and  the  fishes,  to  meet  the  year, 

With  songs  and  rejoicing,  why  come  they  here  ; 

Why  leave  a  land  that  is  ever  in  bloom, 

And  the  waters  that  shine  like  a  star-built  room  ? 

Ah  !  is  it  to  man  such  a  boon  is  given, 

So  sinful  on  earth,  and  ungrateful  to  Heaven  1 

Poor  worm  !  not  for  you  such  a  boon  may  be — 

But  alas  !  'tis  a  deep,  deep  mystery. 

When  the  Summer  birds  have  ceased  their  lay, 
Then  the  Autumn  insects  begin  their  play — 
The  grasshopper  first,  with  his  solemn  trill, 
Succeeds  to  the  lonely  whippowil ; 
Then  the  katy-did  and  field  cricket  ply 
A  strange  and  ominous  melody — 
Imbued  with  a  spirit  of  prophecy 
They  herald  decay — what  a  mystery  ! 

But  man  is  the  riddle  that  stands  confest, 
The  head  and  the  caption  of  all  the  rest ; 
With  a  lease  of  life  so  frail  that  the  air 
May  sweep  away  with  his  utmost  care  ; 
With  a  buoyant  spirit  he  merrily  flies 
Through  pleasure  and  pain  until  he  dies — 
And  is  this  all  1  no,  he  still  would  be 
An  angel  above — what  a  mystery. 


16* 


186  MORAL,    8ENTIMENTA1, 

TO-MORROW — A  FACT. 

IN  one  of  those  delicious  isles, 

Blessed  with  fond  nature's  endless  smiles, 

And  fragrance  ever  flowing, 
I  saw  a  maid,  not  long  ago— 
'Twas  in  the  isle  of  Curacoa, 

Where  love  is  warm  and  glowing ; 
Her  cheek  was  alabaster  white, 
Her  eye  the  dwelling  of  delight, 

Without  a  touch  of  sorrow ; 
And  when  I  strove  a  kiss  to  gain, 
She  answered  with  a  soft  disdain, 

In  broken  phrase — "  to-morrow." 
That  word  was  all  she  understood 
Of  English,  yet  to  me  'twas  food, 

Sweet  as  Arabian  honey — 
And  so  returned  to  dream  away 
The  barrier  to  another  day, 

And  of  my  Spanish  Donna ; 
It  shonej  that  morning  of  perfume, 
Tasseled  with  clouds,  and  clad  in  bloom, 

Into  my  cabin  narrow ; 
It  found  me  by  my  lady's  chair, 
Inviting  her  to  take  the  air — 

She  smiled  and  said — "  to-morrow." 

Sweet  Petre-moi,*  upon  thy  plain, 
Festooned  with  flowers,  and  fringed  with  cane, 
I  met  once  more  my  charmer ; 


*Petre-moi — a  pleasant    promenade   used  by  the    inhabitants  of 
Curacoa,  situated  on  the  east  side  of  the  harbor. 


DESCRIPTIVE,    ETC.  187 

It  was  a  festal  holiday — 

With  martial  pomp  and  proud  display, 

And  military  armour ; 
My  lady  fair  I  soon  espied, 
And  gently  hauled  along  beside, 

Bleeding  with  love's  light  arrow, 
And  there  proposed  with  her  to  dance — 
But  ah  !  was  chilled  with  the  response, 

In  accents  mild — "  to-morrow." 

Crest-fallen  and  confused,  I  turned, 
Quite  sad  to  hear  my  court  adjourned, 

Again  by  my  dulcina ; 
I  said,  "  Oh  can  deceit  of  soul 
Have  crossed  the  ocean-lea,  and  stole 

Within  thy  breast,  Rosina  1" 
But  still  resolved,  my  plea  I  plied, 
Such  game  I  could  not  be  denied — 

In  love  a  young  Suwarrow  ; 
I  said,  by  signs,  I  would  attend 
Her  to  her  home,  and  be  her  friend — 

Uut  still  she  said — "  to-morrow." 

Our  vessel  now  must  leave  the  isle, 
And  plow  the  ocean  many  a  mile, 

Her  homeward  freight  returning  ; 
Once  more  I  sought  this  cruel  girl, 
Before  our  cam-as  should  unfurl, 

Disconsolate  and  mourning ; 
I  told  her  thus  to  sail  afar, 
Without  one  hope,  a  guiding  star, 

It  did  my  feelings  harrow — 


188  MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL, 

And  that  I  would  her  passage  pay, 
Unto  iny  own  America — 

She  sweetly  said — "  to-morrow." 

Some  years  passed  swiftly  on,  when  lo ! 
Once  more  I  sought  sweet  Curacoa, 

And  pleasant  outre-banda,* 
And  through  the  groves  of  prickly  pear, 
The  dwelling  of  Rosena  fair, 

An  orange  bound  verandah  ; 
I  found,  and  flew  into  her  arms, 
For  still  her  form  was  wrapt  in  charms — 

But  oh  !  surprise  and  horror  ! 
A  monstrous  negro  by  my  side, 
Exclaimed— "My  tar,  this  is  my  bride, 

And  my  name  is  Too-mor-Hoo." 

The  mystery  we  now  explain— 
I  had  mistook  her  lover's  name, 

A  day  of  assignation — 
While  he,  to  carry  on  the  joke, 
Altho'  he  well  good  English  spoke, 

Advised  the  soft  evasion  ; 
He  took  me  kindly  by  the  hand — 
He  was  a  chief  of  manners  bland, 

Although  as  black  as  Pharaoh — 
And  told  me  when  I  crossed  the  main, 
To  see  his  pleasant  isle  again, 

To  call  and  see — "  Too-mor-Hoo." 


*Outre-banda — in  English,  the  other  side  of  the  river. 


DESCRIPTIVE,  ETC.  189 

THE   PAIR   OF    STOCKINGS. 
To  Mrs.  J e* 

THERE  lives  a  lady  in  this  land, 
Of  carriage  nieek,  and  manners  bland — 
(That  there  be  such,  it  is  not  strange,) 
But  this,  requested  me  to  change 

My  stockings. 

She  said  my  feet  were  wet  and  cold, 
And  that  my  shoes  were  thin  and  old — 
Then  kindly  bid  me  take  a  chair, 
And  sweetly  offered  me  a  pair 

Of  stockings. 

She  knew  I'd  travelled  many  a  mile, 
And  that  I'd  many  yet  to  toil, 
Through  rain  and  puddle,  long  before 
I  could  obtain  my  humble  store 

Of  stockings. 

They're  welcome  sure,  when  cold  and  wet — 
The  tones  of  pity  and  regret — 
But  they  are  welcome  more  by  far, 
When  proffered  with  a  handsome  pair 

Of  stockings. 

1  love  attentions  from  the  men, 
And  love  to  pay  them  back  again — 
But  their's  did  never  touch  my  soul, 
Like  that  kind  offer  of  a  roll 

Of  stockings. 

*May  she  live  a  thousand  years. 


190  MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL, 

Oft  when  dejected  and  alone, 
I've  wandered,  weary,  sad  and  worn, 
With  feet  unsheltered,  cold  and  bare, 
I've  thought  upon  that  azure  pair 

Of  stockings. 


THE    POOR. 

READER,  hast  seen,  in  winter  bleak, 
The  clouded  eye  and  furrowed  cheek, 
And  the  imploring  look  so  meek, 

Wandering  around  the  city  ; 
And  canst  thon  say,  in  language  true, 
Thy  hands  into  thy  pockets  new, 
And  kindly  gave  expression  to 

Thy  sentiment  of  pity  7 

Mayhap  thou  art  some  lovely  girl, 
With  rounded  cheek  and  jetty  curl- 
Some  father's  gem,  some  mother's  pearl, 

Accomplished,  gay,  and  witty ; 
Hast  then  thy  bosom  felt  a  throe, 
To  hear  the  suffering  tale  of  woe  1 
If  not,  then  haste  to  hear,  for  oh  ! 

'Twill  make  you  look  so  pretty. 

For  there  is  nothing,  1  am  sure, 
Upon  this  earth,  can  so  allure, 
As  sweet  benevolence  and  pure. 

In  Harriet  or  Hetty  ; 
Then  past  omissions  now  retrieve. 


DESCRIPTIVE,  ETC.  191 

And  hasten  to  the  poor,  and  give — 
And  like  sweet  mercy's  angel,  leave 
Your  ornamented  settee. 

Oh  !  'tis  a  scandal  to  the  times, 
When  poets  sit  composing  rhymes, 
About  content  and  father  Grimes — 

And  thus  neglect  their  duty  ; 
And  wealth  and  luxury  forget, 
They  owe  the  poor  a  righteous  debt — 
And  on  their  cushioned  sofas  sit, 

Adorned  with  gold  and  beauty. 

There,  when  the  winter  passeth  by, 
They  cannot  hear  the  beggar's  sigh, 
Nor  e'er  the  orphan's  hungry  cry. 

In  mornings  cold  and  sleety  ; 
Nor  hear  the  angry  tempest's  roar, 
Nor  eke  the  battlement  encore, 
Nor  see  the  menial  at  the  door, 

Repel  the  mild  entreaty. 

And  when  the  children  eye  the  plain 
Rent  garment  of  the  aged  man, 
With  biting  scorn  or  cold  disdain — 

Oh  !  this  is  passing  naughty — 
For  they  who  did  it  long  before, 
The  bears  and  wolves  in  pieces  tore, 
With  fierce  red  jaws  and  hideous  roar — 

God  will  destroy  the  haughty. 

Then  young  and  old,  who  read  my  verse, 
If  you  would  deprecate  a  curse, 


192  MORAL.  SENTIMENTAL, 

Untie  the  strings  that  close  your  purse, 

And  honor  thus  my  ditty  ; 

And  give  a  liberal  bonus  each, 

Unto  the  poor,  I  do  beseech, 

If  you  do  ever  mean  to  reach 

The  everlasting city. 


THE   OLD  SCHOOL-HOUSE. 

IT  stood  upon  a  rising  green, 
Two  rural  cottages  between, 
An  orchard  bloomed  across  the  way, 
Retired  and  beautifully  gay. 

Behind  it  gently  rose  a  hill — 
I  see  it  in  the  distance  still — 
Just  peeping  o'er  the  poplar  tree, 
But  not  as  once  I  used  to  see. 

Upon  a  locust  growing  near, 
A  robin  nestled  every  year — 
It  grew  so  tame  it  would  not  fly, 
E'em  tho'  you  kissed  its  ruby  eye. 

A  distant  bay,  soft  and  serene, 
In  calm  seclusion  closed  the  scene — 
And  there  the  school  boy's  eye  would  rest 
When  with  his  weary  task  opprest. 

It  was  a  building  built  of  yore — 
It  held  just  forty  and  no  more  j 


DESCRIPTIVE,  ETC.  193 

And  though  so  very  rude  and  small, 
Contained  the  village  urchins  all. 

Oh  !  I  would  give  the  brightest  gem, 
Could  1  again  be  one  of  them, 
And  in  their  ranks  behold  return, 
That  peace  and  happiness  I  mourn. 

It  had  two  windows  to  the  street, 
Through  which  the  summer  breezes  sweet 
Came  with  a  load  of  rich  perfume, 
And  daily  filled  the  little  room. 

There  innocence  could  lie  and  sleep, 
And  zephyrs  round  it  vigils  keep, 
When  it  had  conned  its  A.  B.  C. ; 
The  indulgent  tutor's  name  was  G .* 

'Goodnature  on  his  jocund  face 
iSat  with  inimitable  grace. 
Nor  was  the  grimace  now  in  vogue, 
Assumed  by  that  old  pedagogue. 

The  poor  old  house  without  repairs 
Now  stands  neglected,  lone,  and  bears 
The  insult,  rude  and  unrestrained — 
Cursed  be  the  sacrilegious  hand — 

The  hand  that  would  a  weapon  raise, 
To  fell  this  wreck  of  former  days, 
The  only  days  1  ever  knew 
Of  real  bliss — old  house,  adieu. 


•Augustus  Griffing,  Esq.,  of  Orient,  Long  Island. 
17 


194  MORAL,    SENTIMENTAL, 

ON   THE   DEATH  OF   SIDNEY  LORENZO, 
Infant  Son  of  Sidney  L.  GHnJing,  aged  nine  months. 

HE  closed  his  eyes,  and  to  the  skies 

The  little  cherub's  gone ; 
How  many  cares,  how  many  snares, 

He's  left,  our  little  one ; 
How  many  tears,  how  many  years, 

May  be  of  sorrow  too  ; 
How  many  throes,  sweet  child,  like  those 

Our  hearts  now  give  to  you  ; 
They  only  know,  who  live  below, 

This  sinful  earth  upon— 
They  only  know,  the  pains  and  woe, 

You've  left,  our  little  one. 

He  lived  awhile,  to  lisp  and  smile, 

Our  fond  delight  to  be, 
And  that  was  more,  Eternal  Power, 

Than  we  deserved  from  thee ; 
Why  should  we  weep,  to  see  him  sleep, 

So  silent  and  so  cold — 
If  he  had  lived,  he  might  have  grieved, 

And  wretched  grown,  and  old; 
'Twere  better  far,  before  the  war 

Of  life  is  here  begun, 
To  leave  it  all,  at  Heaven*s  call, 

Our  precious  little  one. 

His  father's  prayer,  his  mother's  tear, 
Alas !  he  never  knew-*- 


DESCRIPTIVE,  ETC.  195 

Or  if  he  did,  he  smiled  and  fled, 

His  Heavenly  Father  to  ; 
Yes,  it  was  meet  his  little  feet, 

Upon  the  brink  of  time  , 
Should  wait  to  bear  that  tear,  that  prayer, 

Up  to  the  Heavenly  clime. 
Thy  mother  lives,  my  child,  and  gives 

This  tribute  to  her  son — 
Forever  torn  from  her,  she'll  mourn 

Her  lost,  her  little  one. 


WEARY  with  worldly  noise  and  mirth, 
With  thoughts  above  my  humble  birth, 
I  cast  my  eyes  around  the  earth, 

And  upward  to  the  sky  : 
I  seek  the  silent  midnight  shade, 
To  muse  alone  on  all  that's  made — 
While  stars  around  in  brightness  wade 

Majestically  by. 

And  man — the  object  of  my  care — 
With  other  beings  I  compare, 
And  ponder  on  the  little  share 

Of  happiness  his  own ; 
While  all  around  appear  so  blest, 
He  seems  the  only  one  opprest ; 
Fettered  to  woe,  he  stands  confest, 

Dejected  and  alone. 


196  MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL, 

He  sleeps  upon  his  thorny  bed, 
With  terrors  hanging  o'er  his  head, 
His  slumbers  by  pale  misery  fed, 

The  morn  renews  his  pain  ; 
Until  he  sleeps  within  his  grave, 
Overwhelmed  with  sorrow's  bursting  wave, 
He  sinks  with  none,  alas  !  to  save — 

When  shall  he  rise  again  1 


What  has  he  done  that  he  should  be 
Pursued  by  such  a  destiny  1 
I  ask  the  air  and  earth  and  sea, 

The  mighty  reason  why ; 
I  ask  the  bird  with  buoyant  wings, 
It  flies  away  or  sweetly  sings — 
I  ask  the  flowers  and  creeping  things, 

But  none  of  them  reply. 

Why  left  abandoned  thus  to  mourn, 
When  all  his  hopes  are  overthrown — 
And  love  and  friendship  from  him  torn  1 

I  weep  but  cannot  tell ; 
Perhaps  some  unremitted  stain, 
Still  lurks  within  each  throbbing  vein, 
For  good  permitted  to  remain, 

While  yet  on  earth  he  dwell — 

To  fit  him  for  a  better  sphere, 
And  tell  him  how  he  suffered  here  ; 
If  so,  then  welcome  sorrow's  tear, 
And  let  him  not  repine — 


DESCRIPTIVE,  ETC.  197 

But  meet  misfortune  with  a  smile, 
Anguish  and  sickness,  grief  and  toil, 
This  bliss  of  hope  should  all  beguile — 
I  fain  would  make  it  mine. 


HUMBLE    LIFE. 

OFT  have  I  to  some  lowly  cot, 
By  fortune  and  the  world  forgot, 

Wandered  alone, 
To  see  how  happiness  could  dwell 
Within  the  precincts  of  a  cell 

Of  wood  and  stone. 

For  I  had  seen,  in  every  state, 
The  boasted  pleasures  of  the  great 

Uncertain  are ; 

Led  by  the  glitter  of  display, 
Their  passions  steal  their  joys  away, 

And  leave  them  care. 

Contentment  seeks  the  cottage  door, 
With  an  unostentatious  store 

Of  love  and  joy; 

And  scatters  round  the  blazing  hearth, 
A  fund  of  innocence  and  mirth, 

Without  alloy. 

Contended  with  his  sweet  abode, 
The  peasant  does  not  feel  the  load 

The  wealthy  share — 
17* 


198  MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL, 

For  envy,  with  her  poisoned  dart, 
Hath  never  found  within  his  heart, 
A  dwelling  there. 

No  thought  disturbs  his  peaceful  breast, 
Of  golden  treasures  unpossessed, 

Or  honors  high ; 

For  well  he  knows  the  gold  we  crave, 
Can  never  shield  us  from  the  grave, 

For  all  must  die. 

Clad  in  the  russet  of  his  farm, 
The  product  of  his  healthy  arm, 

He  does  not  fear 
That  nakedness  will  e're  become 
An  inmate  of  his  peaceful  home, 

Or  close  the  year. 

Thus  blessed  he  hails  the  vernal  day, 
And  sings  the  golden  hours  away — 

Virtue  his  theme ; 
His  features  brighten  with  a  smile, 
'Mid  the  companions  of  his  toil, 

His  joys  supreme. 

Then  reader,  if  for  wealth  you  sigh, 
True  wealth  is  not  among  the  high — 

Nor  happy  days ; 
But  in  the  habitation  low, 
Whose  inmates  feel  the  conscious  glow 

Of  "  wisdom's  ways." 


DESCRIPTIVE,  ETC.  199 

THE    JAUNDICE. 

ONE  night  I  slept  in  an  humble  shed, 
That  the  stars  and  the  moon  shone  through, 

And  as  sleep  came  o'er  me,  my  fancy  led 
My  steps  to  their  fields  of  blue. 

And  straight  in  an  ocean  •world  I  stood, 

That  was  studded  all  gloriously ; 
Yet  not  like  the  sun  in  his  silver  flood, 

But  the  moon  in  her  golden  sea. 

And  pilgrims  from  every  world  were  there, 

And  age— by  time  enrolled  ; 
And  all  their  aim,  and  devotion  and  care, 

Was  its  spotless,  unsullied  gold. 

For  mountains  were  there  of  golden  birth, 

And  bright  waves  of  treasure  rolled, 
And  all  the  winds  and  the  air  and  earth, 

Were  loaded  and  shone  with  gold. 

And  a  God  was  there,  of  great  renown 

In  the  famous  days  of  old — 
And  Mammon  his  name — with  a  ray-lit  crown, 

And  a  throne  of  dazzling  gold. 

His  hands  were  filled  with  the  wavy  ore, 

And  each  of  them  did  hold 
A  sea  !  which  down  on  the  earth  did  pour 

A  liquid  stream  of  gold. 


200  MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL. 

Then  the  leaves  and  flowers  and  blossoms  began 

Their  glories  to  unfold  ; 
And  oh  !  what  a  spring  the  rich  earth  put  on, 

For  its  gems  were  the  purest  gold. 

But  ah  !  i  saw  when  the  harvest  came, 
That  the  hearts  of  the  men  were  sold ; 

For  each  began  with  his  sickle  of  flame, 
To  embezzle  the  crop  of  gold. 

And  ladies  for  rings,  and  bishops  and  kings 

Began  to  quarrel  and  scold, 
And  some  were  asking,  and  some  were  grasping— 

But  every  one  for  gold. 

And  the  soldier  and  thief,  and  lawyer  and  chief, 

And  the  clergyman  I  was  told, 
And  doctors  and  squires  were  sellers  and  buyers, 

And  traded  in  shops  of  gold. 

Then  my  eye  looked  round  in  that  eager  mass, 

The  poor  poet  to  behold ; 
But  they  looked  in  vain,  and  I  said,  alas ! 

He'll  lose  all  his  share  of  gold. 

And  I  looked  again,  and  there  he  lay 

On  the  straw  all  wet  and  cold ! 
A  vagrant  muse  had  lured  him  away, 

While  the  rest  were  amassing  gold. 

And  then  I  awoke  with  a  fever  and  ague, 

And  the  jaundice  in  my  eyes  ; 
And  I  said  to  myself  with  a  shiver — a  plague 

On  such  lodgings  and  trips  to  the  skies. 


CHARACTERISTIC. 


AUNT    PHCEBE    KINO. 

I  KNOW  an  old  lady  who  lives  down  the  street, 
In  a  cot  where  the  shade  of  the  orchard-trees  meet, 
Retired  from  the  world,  and  secure  from  its  gaze, 
There  she  lives  out  at  peace  the  decline  of  her  days. 

Tho'  her  body  be  bent  with  the  weight  of  fourscore, 
And  her  head  by  its  winters  be  whitened  all  o'er, 
Yet  she  sits  in  her  old  oaken-chair,  by  her  niece, 
Like  the  heart  of  content  in  the  bosom  of  peace. 

Tho'  its  bounds  be  but  small,  and  its  acres  but  few, 
Her  farm  is  a  neat  little  prospect  to  view  ; 
So  fair,  with  a  row  of  green  trees  on  each  side, 
It  looks  as  if  happiness  there  might  abide. 

It  pastures  her  cow  and  supplies  her  with  bread, 
And  oft-times  a  crust  to  the  children  of  need  ; 
For  tho'  scanty  her  means,  and  contracted  her  store, 
She  always  has  something  to  give  to  the  poor. 

Her  apron  is  checked  with  the  -white  and  the  blue, 
And  her  handkerchief  nice,  with  the  same  colors  too  ; 
And  so  tidy  she  looks  in  her  autumn  of  life, 
She  once  must  have  made  a  most  excellent  wife. 


202  CHARACTERISTIC. 

Tho'  the  -wrinkle  hath  woven  its  web  o'er  her  face, 
Still  she  smiles  on  her  friends  with  ineffable  grace ; 
And  her  eye's  sweet  expression,  tho'  dim  and  obscure, 
Shows  the  Heaven  within  to  be  spotless  and  pure. 

Her  furniture  looks  like  the  owner  indeed, 
Not  showy  but  such  as  a  cottage  may  need  ; 
One  or  two  tables,  and  two  or  three  chairs, 
A  milk-room  below  and  a  bed-room  up  stairs. 

Tho'  aged,  she  handles  her  needle  quite  well, 

And  'tis  pleasant  to  see  her  engaged  at  her  wheel — 

It  the  days  of  delight  and  industry  recalls, 

When  the  distaff's  achievements  encumbered  the  walls. 

Oh  !  long  may  she  live  an  example  to  be, 

Of  usefulness  blended  with  humility ; 

That  the  young  and  the  gay  may  behold  what  a  prize 

The  old  age  of  a  virtuous  woman  enjoys. 

How  sweet  it  must  be  to  look  back  on  a  life 

So  full  of  good  deeds,  be  it  husband  or  wife ; 

All  the  gold  in  the  world  to  the  winds  I  would  fling, 

Had  I  lived — could  I  die — like  my  aunt  Phoebe  King. 


LINES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MR.  EZEKIEL  GLOVERj 
Of  Orient,  a  Soldier  of  the  Revolution. 

IN  a  moss  covered  cot,  with  the  sea  at  one  end, 
With  his  consort  alone  lived  my  worthy  old  friend, 
From  the  storms  of  the  world  he  lived  blessed  and  retired, 
For  his  virtues  esteemed,  for  his  talents  admired. 


CHARACTERISTIC.  203 

Time  after  time  I  had  passed  by  his  door, 
'Till  the  weight  of  his  years  was  the  sum  of  fourscore  ; 
And  heard  from  his  lips  the  instruction  of  age, 
The  life  of  the  soldier  the  lore  of  the  sage. 

He  had  served  in  the  wars  of  his  country,  and  fought 
In  her  glorious  armies  when  freedom  was  bought ; 
And  when  he  detailed  how  her  battle  was  won, 
O'er  his  features  the  halo  of  Liberty  shone  ; 
Through  the  dimness  of  age  and  the  wrinkles  of  care, 
The  light  show'd  the  soul  of  the  hero  was  there ; 
That  the  patriot  fire  still  burned  in  his  breast, 
As  it  did  when  the  combat  its  lightning  confest. 

Altho'  he  was  poor  in  his  worldly  estate, 
In  his  heart  he  was  rich,  in  his  soul  he  was  great — 
And  what  elevates  man  in  the  scale  of  his  kind, 
Was  his  pride  to  possess,  and  his  passion  to  find 
In  himself  and  in  others,  and  practice  it  then 
In  his  precepts  of  life,  in  his  dealings  with  men  ; 
And  to  show  the  young  age,  that  around  him  began, 
What  constitutes  worth  and  what  beautifies  man. 

'Twas  a  beautiful  spot  where  he  chose  to  reside, 
Where  he  peacefully  lived,  where  he  tranquilly  died, 
On  a  green  spot  of  earth,  by  the  side  of  a  bay, 
Where  its  wave  sang  a  hymn  to  the  march  of  decay — 
Where  the  heart  in  the  evening  of  life  could  retire, 
And  its  murmur  be  hushed  by  the  sea-swelling  lyre, 
And  the  mind  be  relieved  from  its  sorrows  and  woes, 
And  the  gray  head  be  pillowed  in  peace  and  repose. 


204  CHARACTERISTIC. 

When  I  muse  on  my  friend,  now  at  rest  in  his  grave, 
I  still  hear  the  sound  of  the  murmuring  wave- 
That  sea  is  still  beating  its  dirge  on  the  shore, 
Tho'  my  friend  he  may  hear  it  repeated  no  more, 
But  his  bright  gallant  spirit  seems  speaking  to  me 
From  the  roar  of  the  waves,  from  the  rush  of  the  sea, 
To  be  true  to  my  country,  her  freedom  and  fame, 
The  behest  of  a  band  with  a  glorious  name. 


UNCLE    NAT. 

'THERE'S  a  precious  old  fellow  lives  over  the  way, 
His  brow  rather  bald,  and  his  locks  something  gray, 

And  his  coat  buttons  right  down  before  ; 
He  worketh  all  day,  and  he  sleepeth  all  night, 
He's  up  with  the  lark  and  as  cheerful  and  bright — 
Wide  awake  1 — to  be  sure,  and  a  specimen  quite 

Of  a  youthful  old  lad  of  fourscore. 

That  sturdy  old  yeoman,  I  know  him  full  well, 
For  long  by  his  cot,  I've  delighted  to  dwell- 
To  mark  the  slow  hand  of  .decay 
Put  a  wrinkle  up  here  and  a  furrow  down  there 
As  tho'  it  would  rather  be  busy  elsewhere, 
Than  on  that  old  peace-loving  phiz  to  declare 
Life  passeth  like  all  things  away. 

My  plodding  old  neighbor,  for  many  a  year, 
Has  ploughed  up  the  sod  without  sorrow  or  fear, 

For  the  earth  is  a  blessing  to  him — 
He's  blessed  in  his  virtue,  and  blessed  in  his  store, 
And  tho'  he  has  plenty,  he  keeps  getting  more — 


CHARACTERISTIC.  205 

He  says  he  is  well  for  a  man  of  fourscore, 
Except  now  and  then  "rather  slim." 

I  knew  him  in  childhood,  they  told  me  his  name, 
Uncle  Nat — and  in  boyhood  he  looked  much  the  same, 

And  now  in  my  manhood,  behold  ! 
Uncle  Nat's  young  as  ever,  for  all  I  can  see, 
Walks  as  nimbly  about,  talks  as  kindly  with  me — 
And  as  fond  of  his  money  and  cattle  is  he, 

As  if  he  could  never  grow  old. 

'Tis  a  joy  in  these  days  of  deception  and  pride, 
To  live  an  untainted  old  neighbor  beside — 

'Tis  a  balm  and  a  bliss  to  the  soul 
To  gaze  on  that  relic  of  happier  days, 
"When  our  youth  sallied  forth  in  the  midsummer's  blaze, 
To  hyrnn  with  the  birds  and  the  insects  the  praise 

Of  the  Heaven  that  smiled  on  the  whole. 


UNCLE    JO.  BOOTH. 

THERE'S  many  now  living  who  hav'nt  forgot, 
The  jovial  old  minstrel  I've  mentioned,  I  wot, 
From  Sterling  to  Oysterpond's  vallies  below, 
They  remember  with  pleasure  poor  old  uncle  Jo. 

'Twas  a  holyday  shout,  when  he  came  into  view, 
For  he  was  a  fiddler,  when  fiddlers  were  few — 
If  a  feast,  he  was  there — if  a  marriage,  also, 
And  the  happiest  among  them  was  poor  uncle  Jo. 
18 


206  CHARACTERISTIC. 

He  was  welcomed'with  pleasure,  and  greeted  by  all, 
For  his  comical  phiz  was  the  sign  for  a  ball — 
There  was  joy  in  his  fiddle,  and  mirth  in  his  bow, 
And  none  could  produce  them,  like  poor  uncle  Jo. 

Not  a  note  could  he  tell  from  a  pitchfork,  not  he, 
But  his  fingers  well  knew  where  to  stop  for  a  mi, 
For  his  joints  were  all  quavers,  and  crotchets  and  co— 
He  was  nature's  own  fiddler,  poor  old  uncle  Jo. 

I  have  heard  many  fiddlers,  but  never  one  yet 
That  could  fiddle  like  him,  in  this  world  have  I  met ; 
He  played  by  no  rules,  but  his  music  was — oh  ! 
They  only  can  tell  who  have  heard  uncle  Jo. 

'Twas  made  for  the  village,  so  simple  and  clear, 
It  seemed  to  repose  but  not  strike  on  the  ear, 
'Twas  played  for  the  happy,  so  gentle  its  flow, 
And  it  came  from  the  happy,  poor  old  uncle  Jo. 

•But  his  fiddle  was  all  that  the  poor  man  possessed, 
Except  to  be  always  contented  and  blessed ; 
And  the  hearty  good  wishes  the  grateful  bestow 
On  the  minstrel  they  love,  like  poor  uncle  Jo. 

He's  gone  to  his  rest  in  the  vale  where  he  sung, 
And  his  harp  on  the  willows  forever  is  hung — 
And  this  humble  tribute,  so  plaintive  and  low, 
1  pay  to  thy  mem'ry  poor  old  uncle  Jo. 


CHARACTERISTIC.  207 


AUNT   JENNY   KADE. 

AUNT  Jenny  Kade,  would  you  know  where  she  dwells  1 

Should  my  plaudit  deny,  her  benevolence  tells — 

By  her  neighbors  all  round,  she  is  courted  and  blessed, 

And  the  young  and  the  old  to  her  virtues  attest  ; 

And  altho'  she  sprang  from  an  African  race, 

Her  heart  I  am  certain,  is  in  the  right  place — 

'Twas  there  it  was  made, 

There  it's  ever  since  staid, 

The  heart  full  of  kindness,  of  aunt  Jenny  Kade. 

Her  manners  are  bland,  with  gentility  joined, 
And  her  eye  gives  the  flash  of  her  spirited  mind, 
Unbroken  by  age,  and  unsullied  by  crime, 
She  seems  to  be  almost  unnoticed  by  time  ; 
Tho'  deep  her  complexion,  and  ebon  her  face, 
Her  heart,  I  am  certain,  is  in  the  right  place — 
'Twas  there  when  'twas  made, 
There  it's  ever  since  staid, 
The  heart  full  of  kindness,  of  aunt  Jenny  Kade. 

On  her  memory's  page,  wrote  in  letters  of  light, 

Are  the  deeds  of  our  fathers,  who  rose  for  their  right, 

And  oft  she  relates,  by  her  humble  fireside, 

To  the  wondering  youth,  how  they  gallantly  died ; 

For  she  lived  in  her  prime,  with  that  undaunted  race, 

And  her  heart,  like  its  heroes,  is  in  the  right  place — 

'Twas  there  it  was  laid, 

There  it's  ever  since  staid, 

The  heart  full  of  kindness,  of  aunt  Jenny  Kade. 


208  CHARACTERISTIC. 

Let  no  one  my  subject  pretend  to  despise, 

Because  she  be  veiled  in  a  sable  disguise, 

For  her  line  was  of  princes,  I've  often  been  told, 

Who  were  torn  from  a  land  bearing  spices  and  gold — 

Her  blood  is  as  noble  as  any  can  trace, 

And  her  heart,  I  am  certain,  is  in  the  right  place 

'Twas  there  it  was  laid, 

There  it's  ever  since  staid, 

The  heart  full  of  kindness,  of  aunt  Jenny  Kade. 

Tho'  over  fourscore,  the  old  lady  has  pride, 

And  her  hands  to  the  needle  and  thread  are  allied ; 

The  bread  of  dependence  she  scorns  to  receive, 

As  long  as  her  fingers  and  needles  can  weave — 

And  what  if  it  be  not  the  finest  of  lace, 

Her  heart,  I  am  certain,  is  in  the  right  place — 

'Twas  there  it  was  made, 

There  it's  ever  since  staid, 

The  heart  full  of  kindness,  of  aunt  Jenny  Kade. 

But,  pretty  young  reader,  a  model  for  thee, 

In  mind  and  in  manners  and  virtue  is  she, 

In  every  department  of  life  and  of  love, 

As  wife,  mother,  patriarch,  few  can  improve, 

And  all  she  performs,  'tis  with  infinite  grace, 

And  her  heart,  I  am  certain,  is  in  the  right  place,- 

'Twas  there  it  was  made, 

There  it's  ever  since  staid, 

The  heart  full  of  kindness,  of  aunt  Jenny  Kade. 

Her  parents  were  Pompey  and  Judy,  she  says, 
Who  came  from  a  country  not  distant  from  Fez — 


CHARACTERISTIC.  209 

From  their  evergreen  earth  they  were  stolen  and  bound, 

And  their  graves  far  away  from  their  kindred  they  found ; 

'Twas  an  act  of  oppression  and  burning  disgrace, 

But  her  heart,  for  all  this,  occupies  the  right  place — 

'Twas  there  it  was  made, 

There  it's  ever  since  staid, 

The  heart  full  of  kindness,  of  aunt  Jenny  Kade. 


AUNT    DINAH. 

EMBOWERED  in  shade,  by  the  side  of  a  wood, 
The  cot  of  aunt  Dinah  delightfully  stood, 
A  rural  retreat,  in  simplicity  drest, 
Sequestered  it  sat  like  a  bird  in  its  nest ; 
Festooned  with  the  brier,  and  scented  with  rose, 
Its  windows  looked  out  on  a  scene  of  repose, 
Its  wood  all  in  green,  and  its  grass  all  in  bloom, 
Like  the  dwelling  of  peace  in  a  grove  of  perfume. 

Tho'  the  skin  of  aunt  Dinah  was  black  as  a  coal, 
The  beams  of  affection  enlightened  her  soul ; 
Like  gems  in  a  cavern,  that  sparkle  and  blaze, 
The  darkness  but  adds  to  the  strength  of  their  rays 
Or  the  moon  looking  out  from  her  evening  shroud, 
Or  the  sun  riding  forth  from  the  edge  of  a  cloud, 
So  benevolence  shone  in  her  actions  alway, 
And  the  darkness  of  life  became  radiant  with  day. 

"What  tho'  she  were  poor,  aunt  Dinah's  estate 
The  world  was  unable  to  give  or  create, 
Her  wealth  was  her  virtues,  and  brightly  they  shone, 
With  a  lustre  unborrowed,  and  beauty  their  own ; 
18* 


210  CHARACTERISTIC. 

Her  nature  was  goodness,  her  heart  was  a  mine 
Of  jewels,  more  precious  than  words  can  define, 
And  she  gave  them  with  such  a  profusion  and  grace, 
Their  light  gave  complexion  and  hue  to  her  face. 

Aunt  Dinah  has  gone  to  the  land  of  the  good, 
And  her  ashes  repose  by  her  favorite  wood, 
But  her  lonely  old  cottage  looks  out  o'er  the  plain, 
As  if  it  would  welcome  its  mistress  again  ; 
And  long  may  it  stand  in  that  rural  retreat, 
To  mind  us  of  her  we  no  longer  may  meet, 
When  we  go  after  blackberries,  joj'ful  and  gay, 
And  forget  the  kind  hostess  who  welcomed  us  aye. 


CRAZY  STEPHEN. 

NOT  far  from  where  my  childhood  played, 
In  innocence  and  mirth  arrayed, 
Where  violets  breathe  and  zephyrs  fan, 
There  lived  a  melancholy  man  ; 
'Twas  said  that  love  had  proved  unkind, 
And  thus  deranged  his  gentle  mind — 
And  o'er  his  visage  oft  I  ween, 
Pale  disappointment  couH  be  seen. 

Over  the  fields  like  one  amazed, 
Silent  and  sad,  poor  Stephen  gazed — 
Over  the  fields  of  green  and  gold, 
Reason  rejoices  to  behold  ; 
With  downcast  eye  and  solemn  pace, 
He  roved  about  from  place  to  place  ; 


CHARACTERISTIC . 

Children  at  play  beheld  and  ran, 
To  shun  the  harmless  crazy  man. 

His  sad,  wild  musings  no  one  knew, 
But  they  were  of  a  gentle  hue, 
For  treated  well,  there  seemed  a  ray 
Of  reason  round  its  throne  to  play  ; 
A  grateful  smile,  would  often  seem 
To  leap,  like  an  imprisoned  beam, 
Into  his  features,  and  his  eye, 
Then  back,  in  sad  despair  to  die. 

His  mind  still  bore  the  deep  impress 

Of  love  upon  its  wilderness — 

That  still  survived,  shattered  and  wrecked, 

The  chaos  of  his  intellect ; 

An  island  sunk  beneath  the  sea, 

Blooming  in  freshness,  if  it  be 

Like  that,  sweet  recollection  stole 

Love  from  the  oblivion  of  his  soul. 

He  knew  his  early  friends,  and  all 
The  scenes  he  loved  before  his  fall — 
Although  all  present  was  destroyed, 
The  past  still  lingered  in  the  void ; 
His  mind  lived  through  its  freshness  then, 
It  knew  no  more  of  things  or  men, 
But  sunk,  leaving  one  only  trace, 
Its  past  affections  in  the  place. 

But  Stephen  doth  no  longer  roam — 
He's  found,  as  all  must  find,  their  home— 


211 


212  CHARACTERISTIC. 

But  in  his  life,  when  deeply  viewed, 
There  was  a  strange  vicissitude  ; 
'Twas  strange  that  love  when  unreturned, 
Should  quench  the  light  that  inly  burned, 
And  change  the  pride  of  nature's  plan, 
To  a  poor,  helpless,  crazy  man. 


THE    HOLLOW    TREE. 

I  ONCE  knew  a  couple  contented  in  life, 

I  knew  them  quite  well,  the  man  and  his  wife — 

They  lived  in  a  hollow  tree  ; 
The  blackberries  ripened  around  them,  and  they 
Were  as  happy  as  any  who  lived  in  their  day, 

Although  of  a  low  degree. 

Their  looks  were  so  kind,  the  young  people  would  while 
Their  own  cares  away,  in  the  sun  of  their  smile, 

When  they  fled  from  the  world's  melee, 
And  sought  the  repose  of  an  evening  hour, 
In  that  humble  retirement  from  pride  and  from  power, 

The  shade  of  the  hollow  tree. 

Thus  their  lives  glided  on,  like  a  river  at  rest, 

By  its  banks  of  sweet  flowers,  all  beauteous  and  blest, 

To  its  home  in  an  endless  sea  ; 

They  knew  not  the  world,  and  they  cared  for  no  more, 
Than  the  bounty  that  nature  brought  home  to  the  door 

Of  their  home  in  the  hollow  tree. 


CHARACTERISTIC.  213 

'Twas  a  chestnut,  and  time  had  been  busily  there, 
Corroding  what  nature  had  cherished  with  care 

For  many  a  century  ; 

But  tho'  it  was  old,  it  still  stood  in  its  pride, 
And  spread  its  green  branches  protecting  and  wide — 

'Tvvas  kind  in  the  hollow  tree. 

I've  stood  in  the  palace,  and  sat  with  the  great, 
But  there  I  found  envy,  suspicion,  and  hate, 

And  gorgeous  misery ; 
'Tis  better,  far  better,  I  said,  to  be  poor, 
And  I'd  rather,  much  rather,  be  found  at  the  door 

Of  my  friends  of  the  hollow  tree. 


THE    OLD    OVEN. 

A  FEW  days  ago,  I  beheld  an  old  oven, 

With  an  entrance  decayed  and  a  fractured  wall — 
Its  side  by  the  steel  of  old  time  had  been  riven, 

But  the  charm  of  its  age  on  my  spirit  did  fall ; 
It  recalled  the  delight  of  the  maiden  and  mother, 

Surrounded  with  neighbors  and  relatives  gay, 
Delighted  again  to  partake  with  each  other, 

The  good  things  of  life  on  a  Thanksgiving  day. 

It  recalled  to  my  mind  the  bright  days  of  good  living, 
Of  abundance  and  peace,  which  our  forefathers  saw 

When  the  plough  in  the  earth  was  contentedly  diving. 
And  men  tvent  to  church  without  going  in  law — 

It  brought  to  my  mind,  too,  the  young,  blushing  creatures, 
So  plump  and  so  fair,  yet  so  modest  and  shy, 


214  CHARACTERISTIC. 

"With  the  bright  bloom  of  health  overspreading  their  features, 
And  a  smile  on  their  cheek  and  a  dove  in  their  eye. 

The  table  arrayed  in  the  beautiful  order, 

Our  grandmothers  used  in  the  last  century— 
The  dimity  cover  and  tasselled  border, 

With  plates  made  of  maple  and  fine  hickory — 
The  old  silver  tankard,  with  cider  o'erflowing, 

The  poultry  that  seemed  "  come  and  eat  me"  to  call, 
The  duck  and  the  rooster,  that  yet  seemed  a-crowing, 

And  e'en  the  old  gobler,  the  prince  of  them  all. 

Oh  !  when  shall  I  revel  in  rivers  of  gravy, 

Of  butter  and  honey,  as  they  did  of  yore — 
Or  such  oceans  of  fat  as  would  float  a  small  navy, 

When  the  pots  groaned  "enough,"  and  the  kettles  "no  more  1" 
Ah,  me  !  will  there  never  arrive  a  re-action, 

When  ovens  no  longer  shall  "  emptiness"  cry, 
Xor  tables  be  spread  with  a  "  mental  abstraction," 

The  stomach  to  mock,  and  the  teeth  to  defy  1 

Alas  !  will  there  never  again  be  presented, 

The  holyday  pudding,  and  christmas-day  pie, 
And  the  gingerbread  loaves,  all  with  cinnamon  scented  1 

I  asked  the  old  oven,  and  heard  the  reply : 
"  So  long  as  the  dandy,  the  driv'ler  and  sloven, 

Half-baked,  round  the  country  are  suffered  to  drone, 
And  the  plough  is  neglected,  the  distaff  and  oven, 

You  may  ask  of  me  bread,  and  I'll  give  you  a  stone. 

Then  repair  to  the  plough,  and  repair  to  the  oven, 
I  said  to  myself,  as  I  musing  returned — 


CHARACTERISTIC.  215 

'Tis  the  way  to  recover  the  blessings  of  heaven, 
So  gracelessly  lost,  and  so  foolishly  mourned ; 

Then  the  days  of  abundance,  and  mirth,  and  good  living, 
Our  fathers  enjoyed,  will  again  re-appear, 

And  the  ox  and  the  fatling  again  be  seen  thriving, 
To  crown  with  thanksgiving  the  end  of  the  year. 


THE   OLD    PEWTER    PLATTER. 

1  SING  of  the  days  and  the  nights  of  good  fare, 

When  old-fashioned  plenty  reigned  over  the  land — 
When  tables  could  carry  one  ox  or  a  pair, 

So  large  were  they  made  and  so  firm  did  they  stand  ; 
Thus  singing,  I  passed  an  old  pewter  platter, 

That  stood  by  a  paling,  held  up  by  a  shoar, 
Its  ample  dimensions  they  made  my  mouth  water, 

To  think  of  the  slaughter  it  formerly  bore — 
The  old  pewter  platter  that  made  my  mouth  water, 

To  think  of  the  slaughter  it  formerly  bore. 

The  plates  now  in  use,  indeed  if  there  be  any — 

For  I  have  heard  many  condemn  such  a  thing — 
Are  much  of  the  size  of  a  worn  out  sixpenny, 

How  like  to  the  old  pewter  platter  I  sing  ! 
A  change  so  degrading,  I  thought  to  be  aiding 

The  causes  that  conquered  republics  of  yore, 
And  I  thought  it  much  better  to  use  the  old  platter, 

And  mess  with  the  slaughter  it  formerly  bore — 
The  old  pewter  platter  that  made  my  mouth  water, 

To  think  of  the  slaughter  it  formerly  bore. 


216  CHARACTERISTIC. 

How  changed  is  the  aspect  of  men  and  of  manners, 

As  plates  have  grown  less,  so  has  courage  and  men — 
They  fight,  it  is  true,  under  petticoat  banners, 

And  the  motto  they  bear  is  a  rabid  old  hen  ; 
We've  fallen  in  nature,  we're  pigmies  in  stature, 

We  dine  on  a  sixpenny  plate,  or  a  four, 
We  stare  at  the  sight  of  an  old  pewter  platter, 

And  faint  at  the  slaughter  it  formerly  bore — 
The  old  pewter  platter  that  made  my  mouth  water, 

To  think  of  the  slaughter  it  formerly  bore. 

Where  now  are  the  Anaks,  that  conquered  the  lion 

Of  Britain,  and  made  the  old  cannibal  roar  7 
Their  glorious  ashes  the  tomb  doth  environ — 

There  is  but  one  way  the  old  race  to  restore  ; 
'Tis  to  dine  off  the  platter,  a  yard  and  a  quartsr 

Across  the  bright  surface — I'll  ask  then  no  more, 
•Save  the  roast  beef  and  pudding,  and  all  the  rich  loading. 

And  glorious  flooding  it  formerly  bore — 
The  old  pewter  platter  that  made  my  mouth  water. 

To  think  of  the  slaughter  it  formerly  bore. 


JACK   NORRIS'. 

1  KNOW  an  old  sailor,  Jack  Norris  his  name, 
His  cheeks  red  as  roses,  bis  hair  much  the  same  ; 
The  rude  touch  of  the  ocean  his  features  have  lined, 
But  the  heart  of  Jack  Norris  is  gentle  and  kind. 

The  child  of  the  sea,  of  old  Neptune  the  son, 
He  is  wed  to  his  ship  and  true  to  his  gun — 


CHARACTERISTIC.  217 

All  fear  he  despises,  »11  climates  will  dare, 
And  if  danger  be  present,  Jack  Norris  is  there. 

Base  flattering  words  he  will  never  bestow, 
He  speaks  what  he  thinks  to  his  friend  or  his  foe, 
A  coat  his  contempt,  but  his  jacket  of  blue, 
Is  as  dear  to  poor  Jack,  as  is  gold  to  the  Jew. 

A  rope  and  his  bible  is  all  he  can  read, 
True  courage  his  motto,  and  kindness  his  creed ; 
The  root  of  all  evil  he  spurns  from  his  store — 
He's  a  seaman  at  sea,  but  a  sailor  on  shore. 

His  heart  is  not  sad  when  his  pockets  are  light, 
And  when  they  are  full,  none  are  sad  in  his  sight ; 
To  the  wind  and  the  waves  all  his  treasure  be  owes, 
Just  like  them,  on  all,  he  his  treasure  bestows. 

I  passed  by  his  craft  as  she  rode  by  the  quay, 
And  he  stood  on  her  deck,  looking  merry  as  May, 
With  a  pipe  in  his  mouth,  and  a  quid  in  each  cheek, 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  aloft  at  his  peak. 

Though  his  gains  be  but  few  and  his  vessel  but  small. 
Jack's  destiny  does  not  disturb  him  at  all ; 
If  a  sixpence  his  pocket  can  claim  as  its  own, 
On  his  taffrail  he  sits,  like  a  prince  on  his  throne. 

Then  a  feeling  of  pleasure  came  o'er  me,  to  see 
A  being  so  humble,  yet  happy  as  he, 
For  if  happiness  dwells  where  so  little's  possessed, 
Then,  I  said,  that  like  Jack,  all  the  world  may  be  blessed. 
19 


218  CHARACTERISTIC. 

AUNT  SUSANNAH  BROWN. 

I  KNOW  an  old  lady,  full  fourscore  and  ten, 
Who  yet  lives  and  breathes  with  the  children  of  men, 
Though  her  step  be  not  such  as  it  was  in  her  teens, 
On  her  old  oaken  staff  it  is  seldom  she  leans. 

She's  the  pink  of  politeness,  and  courteous  to  all, 
And  treats  every  one  with  good  manners  who  call — 
She's  free  in  her  cottage,  from  wealth  and  from  want, 
And  her  friends  and  her  relatives  all  call  her  Aunt. 

Her  apron  is  tied  in  the  old  fashioned  way, 

And  dressed  in  her  best,  she  is  cheerful  and  gay — 

She  knows  what  becomes  her  respectable  age, 

For  the  hand  of  good  sense  writes  her  every  day  page. 

Full  three  generations  of  men  she  has  known — 
And  she  stands  in  her  own  native  village  alone, 
The  oldest  and  best,  and  by  all  most  beloved, 
For  a  virtuous  life  she  has  lived,  and  improved. 

Though  the  friends  of  her  youth  have  all  gone  to  their  rest, 
Yet  still  she  is  anxious  to  do  what  is  best, 
She  does  not  sit  down  and  mourn  over  her  loss, 
But  grateful  to  Heaven  she  takes  up  her  cross. 

She  sews,  and  she  washes,  and  works  with  her  hands. 
And  the  winds  of  the  winter  her  countenance  fans — 
She  is  never  afraid  to  go  out  in  the  street, 
For  nature  is  all  the  old  friend  she  can  meet. 


CHARACTERISTIC.  219 

Oh  !  no — there  is  one,  I  had  almost  forgot, 
'Tis  her  God — He's  her  friend  in  or  out  of  her  cot, 
His  goodness  attends  her,  His  blessings  delight, 
Give  her  pleasure  by  day,  smooth  her  pillow  at  night. 

I  love  the  old  lady,  so  good  and  so  wise, 
For  living  a  life  every  one  ought  to  prize, 
For  leaving  a  mantle  of  duty  so  fair, 
That  all  will  delight  to  assume  and  to  wear. 

Oh  !  smooth  be  thy  passage  and  sweet  be  thy  rest, 
And  the  cold  hand  of  death  be  it  light  on  thy  breast, 
When  thy  lamp  shall  go  out,  and  thy  sun  shall  go  down, 
And  bright  angels  attend  thee,  my  Aunt  Susan  Brown. 


AUGUSTUS  GRIFFING,  ESQ. 

1  KNOW  an  old  gentleman,  fully  fourscore, 
Who  yet  seems  among  us  as  young  as  of  yore — 
He's  always  at  home,  conversational,  free, 
And  a  courteous  old  gentleman  always  is  he. 

He  walks  down  the  street  with  his  cane  in  his  hand, 
With  a  step  of  importance,  an  air  of  command, 
And  if  a  good  story  he  chanced  to  begin, 
He  first  shoves  his  handkerchief  up  to  his  chin. 

Though  his  stature  be  small,  'tis  surrounded  with  grace, 
And  his  heart,  I  am  certain,  is  in  the  right  place, 
For  mirth  and  good  nature  sits  perched  on  his  brow, 
Tho'  time  has  run  over  it  oft  with  his  plough. 


220  CHARACTERISTIC. 

His  words  are  well  chosen,  his  language  refined, 
And  his  visage  reflects  an  intelligent  mind ; 
An  eye  for  the  beauties  of  nature  betrays, 
That  the  fire  of  the  poet  continues  to  blaze. 

His  mind  is  a  record  of  ages  and  dates, 
And  his  knowledge  to  others  with  pride  he  relates — 
Grand-fathers,  grand-mothers,  great-uncles  and  aunts, 
All  start  into  life  from  his  memory's  haunts. 

He  dresses  with  taste,  and  is  cheerful  and  gay, 
And  looks  like  a  prince  in  his  best  holiday, 
Tho'  stern  o'er  his  features  impressed  is  the  sage, 
The  signet  of  virtue,  the  \yisdom  of  age. 

In  a  moss-covered  cottage,  alone  and  retired, 
Lives  this  worthy  old  patriarch,  loved  and  admired , 
Where  often  his  friends  are  delighted  to  sit, 
To  feast  on  his  lore  and  regale  on  his  wit. 

And  long  may  he  live  in  his  pleasant  abode, 
And  flowers  spring  up  to  the  end  of  his  road — 
And  when  with  life's  journey  his  struggles  shall  cease, 
May  his  sunset  in  brightness,  his  eyes  close  in  peace. 


AUNT   FAN'S   APPEAL   TO   HER   RICH   FRIENDS. 

OPEN  the  door,  I  want  to  get 

A  little  food  and  comfort  from  your  fire  ; 
My  feet  are  cold,  benumbed  and  wet ; 


CHARACTERISTIC.  221 

Oh  !  can  you  youthful  days  forget — 
Open  the  door *  Dyer. 

Open  the  door,  I'm  sick  and  old, 

And  you  soon  may  be  feeble  as  I  am — 
I'm  thinly  clad,  the  weather's  cold, 
And  silver  I  have  none  or  gold, 
Open  the  door f  Sam. 

Open  the  door,  I'm  bent  and  lame, 

I  fain  would  sit  a  little  while  and  chat, 
*  Down  by  your  warm  and  cozy  flame, 
I've  changed  while  you  look  much  the  same  ; 
Open  the  door  — —  $  Nat. 

Open  the  door,  we  once  were  young, 
And  danced  the  tune  of  lively  moneymuss — 

But  now  my  songs  are  all  unsung, 

My  harp  is  on  the  willows  hung, 
Open  the  door §  Gus. 

Open  the  door,  I  want  to  eat, 

For  on  my  sorrows  long  I've  only  fed ; 
An  old  acquaintance  you  can  treat, 
Your  heart  with  kindness  once  did  beat, 
Open  the  door ||  Fred. 

Open  the  door,  my  hair  is  gray, 
My  eye  is  dim — my  step  uncertain,  slow — 


*  Capt.  Caleb  Dyer,  now  alive— 1849. 
t  Capt.  Samuel  Hobart,  deceased. 
$Mr.  Nathaniel  Tuthill,  now  alive. 
$  Augustus  Griffing,  Esq.,  now  alive. 
II  Capt.  Frederick  Taber,  now  alive. 

19* 


222  CHARACTERISTIC. 

We  once  were  boy  and  girl  at  play, 
As  happy  as  the  birds  in  May, 
Open  the  door *  Jo. 

Open  the  door,  I  want  to  lie 

Upon  your  bed — before  I  journey  hence ; 
We  once  were  joyous,  you  and  I, 
But  now  I'm  sad,  and  soon  must  die, 
Open  the  door f  Dence. 


*  Joseph  Terry,  Esq.,  now  alive, 
t  Mrs.  Prudence  Patty,  now  alive. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


MY  CHILDHOOD'S  STAR. 

WHEN  I  was  quite  a  little  child, 

My  thoughts  were  wandering  and  wild, 

To  wayward  fancies  tending — 
The  wishes  wrong,  the  strange  desires, 
Told  of  the  heart's  unchastened  fires,     • 

The  good  and  evil  blending. 

A  simple  legend  I  will  tell 

Of  my  young  years,  that  those  who  feel 

The  same  desires  arising, 
May  learn  such  dangerous  thoughts  to  quell 
While  yet  in  infancy  they  dwell, 

If  peace  be  worth  their  prizing. 

'Once  when  a  boy,  I  sat  alone 
Upon  a  rude  sequestered  stone, 

The  glorious  heavens  admiring ; 
The  planets  large,  the  smaller  ones, 
The  satellites  and  fixed  suns, 

And  waning  orbs  retiring. 

One  little  brilliancy  above 
The  rest — in  beauty  won  my  love — 
I  sighed  for  its  possession ; 


224  MISCELLANEOUS. 

And  oh !  it  gave  me  greatest  pain, 
To  think  I  could  not  it  attain— 
I  cried  with  childish  passion. 

And  every  eve,  sad  and  alone, 
Upon  this  same  sequestered  stone, 

I  told  my  plaintive  story — 
How  dear  to  me  it  shone  afar, 
The  soft,  bewitching,  radiant  star, 

The  little  twinkling  glory. 

My  friends  beheld  my  form  decay, 
Beheld  me  pale,  and  pine  away, 

Into  a  shadow  turning  ; 
And  kindest  antidotes  applied 
Unto  my  heart — ere  they  descried 

The  secret  of  its  burning. 


It  happened  on  a  summer's  night, 
As  sweet  as  ever  ravished  sight, 

A  playmate  found  me  pining, 
Beside  a  little  brook  that  lay, 
Along  his  humble,  homeward  way, 

Under  a  rose  reclining. 

And  straightway  told  his  friends  that  he 
Had  seen  me  prone  upon  my  knee — 

The  moonbeams  round  me  stealing, 
Address  the  stars,  that  move  on  high 
In  an  exquisite  rhapsody 

Of  eloquence  and  feeling. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  225 

The  story  told,  caress  and  smile, 
And  artful  praise,  and  envious  wile, 

Were  lavished  daily  round  me — 
An  infant  prodigy  proclaimed — 
My  little  heart  was  all  inflamed, 

And  there  the  muses  bound  me. 

They  bound  me  in  ambition's  snare, 
And  now  you  see  me,  what  they  are 

And  have  been — whose  vocation  ; 
It  is  to  range  by  rock  and  stream — 
To  waste  their  days  in  tears,  to  dream 

For  other's  recreation. 

Oh  !  I  shall  ne'er  forget  the  star, 
Hopes  sweetest,  earliest  harbinger — 

The  scene  that  heard  the  story 
Of  inspiration's  youngest  joy  ; 
When  it  upraised  the  sinking  boy 

With  promises  of  glory. 


MY  CHILDHOOD'S  HEAVEN. 

ONCE  when  a  sweet  and  sinless  child, 
All  innocent  and  undefiled, 

Not  over  six  or  seven, 
It  was  my  rapture  and  my  joy, 
My  nightly  dream,  my  day's  employ, 

To  plan  a  little  Heaven. 
One  lovely  Spring  1  found  my  way, 
Down  by  a  small  and  shaded  bay, 


226  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Which,  owing  to  the  trees 
And  shrubs  of  bayberry  around, 
Laid  in  a  silence  deep,  profound, 

Of  calmness  and  of  ease — 

There  by  that  moveless,  silvery  wave, 
My  infant  mind  the  outline  gave 

Of  the  abode  of  love  ! 
And  there  I  planted  sweetest  flowers, 
Such  as  I  deemed  the  angel  bowers 

Were  blooming  with  above. 

'Twas  small,  that  miniature  of  bliss, 
Ten  feet  each  way,  or  something  less, 

Down  in  a  little  vale 
Where  daisies  and  primroses  grew, 
And  scented  airs  swept  sweetly  through, 

To  please  and  to  regale. 

WTien  all  the  flowers  had  gaily  spread, 
Their  beauties  o'er  my  Eden's  bed, 

And  all  the  trees  were  green ; 
With  ecstacy  my  little  hands 
Laid  out  the  streets  and  fairy  lands — 

'Twas  a  delicious  scene. 

For  many  a  day  'twas  my  delight, 

To  pave  the  streets  with  pebbles  white — 

As  snow  by  winter  driven — 
Transparent  were  they  every  one, 
And  glittered  in  the  noon-day  sun 

Bright  as  the  dews  of  heaven. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  227 

I  built  a  little  glassy  lake, 
Within  the  centre  for  the  sake 

Of  sweet  variety ; 
Its  waters,  I  essayed  to  bring, 
From  a  pellucid  crystal  spring, 

That  ran  meandering  by. 

There  gondolas,  with  fairy  sails, 
Made  of  the  blossoms  of  the  vales, 

Of  every  form  and  hue  ; 
Floated  around  with  careless  ease, 
Like  ships  upon  halcyon  seas, 

When  balmy  zephyrs  blew. 

Then  came  the  little  birds  as  though, 
Enamored  of  a  scene  below, 

So  novel  yet  so  fair — 
And  in  their  soft  and  pensive  lays, 
Warbled  their  notes  of  peace  and  praise, 

To  recompense  my  care. 

My  paradise  is  now  no  more, 

The  plough  has  passed  it  o'er  and  o'er  ; 

Yet  often  in  my  sleep, 
The  same  enchanting  scenery 
All  beautiful,  again  I  see, 

And  then  awake  and  weep. 


228  MISCELLANEOUS. 


AMERICA. 

LET  them  boast  their  place  of  birth,  where  the  tyrant  rules  the 
earth, 

And  resound  its  praises  forth,  who  their  kings  obey — 
There  is  not  a  land  so  fine,  so  delightful  and  divine, 

Or  so  beautiful  as  thine,  oh  !  America. 

Let  them  count  their  princes  o'er,  and  their  palaces  explore, 
And  their  pageant  now  no  more,  and  what  are  they  1 

Every  man  a  prince  is  here,  in  his  twenty-second  year, 
And  no  potentate  may  fear  in  America. 

What  is  grandeur  and  renown,  or  a  palace  or  a  crown, 
Where  the  working-man  is  down  by  oppression's  sway — 

The  glory  that  we  prize  is  above  such  vanities, 
'Tis  the  freedom  beaming  eyes  of  America. 

My  Lord  Duke,  sir,  if  you  please,  or  King  George's  proteges, 
Never  saw  our  bended  knees,  I  am  proud  to  say — 

The  homage  we  declare,  princes  would  be  glad  to  share, 
'Tis  unto  the  lovely  fair  of  America. 

We  have  forests,  prairies,  lands,  where  the  soil  uncultured  stands, 
All  we  want  is  willing  hands,  brother  come  away  ; 

Leave  the  crown's  accursed  race,  to  all  manhood  a  disgrace, 
Come  and  show  your  honest  face  in  America. 

Come  the  Polish  refugee,  and  the  Russian  serf,  and  dee 

Man  erect  in  dignity,  come  Hibernia — 
Come  all  ye  oppressed,  come,  make  our  happy  land  your  home, 

We  have  plenty  yet  of  room  in  America. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  229 

Will  you  see  your  children  bow  to  a  heartless  tyrant  low, 
And  a  tax  upon  the  plough,  which  you  cannot  pay  ; 

If  ye  would  not,  cross  the  wave — who  would  live  and  die  a  slave, 
Come  and  find  a  freeman's  grave  in  America. 

Where  the  Indian  drew  his  bow,  by  the  winding  Ohio, 
See  the  milk  and  honey  flow,  and  the  village  gay  ; 

In  our  valleys  of  the  West,  there  the  exiled  and  oppressed 
Find  a  refuge,  and  are  blest  in  America. 


THIS   WORLD   IS   NOT    A   WILDERNESS. 

THIS  world  is  not  a  wilderness ; 
I  know  it  by  its  vernal  tress. 
I  know  by  its  abodes  of  bliss, 
This  world  is  not  a  wilderness. 

I  know  it,  by  its  features  fair, 
And  bright  complexion  everywhere, 
And  by  the  splendor  of  its  dress, 
This  world  is  not  a  wilderness. 

I  know  by  every  singing  bird, 
With  thrilling  rapture  I  have  heard, 
Its  loveliness  and  power  to  bless, 
This  world  is  not  a  wilderness. 

I  know  it  by  the  verdure  spread 
Around  for  beauty's  angel  tread ; 
I  know  it  by  love's  fond  caress, 
This  world  is  not  a  wilderness. 
20 


230  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Come  melancholy,  dry  thy  tears, 
Behold  the  Spring  again  appears ; 
Gaze  on  its  beauty,  and  confess 
This  world  is  not  a  wilderness 

Come  sorrow,  throw  thy  weeds  away, 
Better  the  flowers  of  bright-eyed  May, 
Around  the  brow  of  Hope  to  press, — 
This  world  is  not  a  wilderness. 

Come  tear  the  cypress  from  thy  brow, 
The  rose  is  blooming  brightly  now, 
And  sighing  for  thy  glad  embrace  : 
This  world  is  not  a  wilderness. 


REPLY  TO   THE    FOREGOING,  BY  WILLIAM,  OF   LITTLE 
FALLS,  HERKIMER  COUNTY,  N.  Y. 

I  KNOW  it  by  those  weeds  of  woe, 
I  know  it  by  Death's  dealing  blow ; 
Earth  has  no  sure  abode  of  bliss, — 
This  world  is  all  a  wilderness. 

I  know  it  by  yon  furrowed  face, 
Where  tears  do  course  them  down  apace, 
Betokening  sorrow's  cold  embrace — 
This  world  is  all  a  wilderness, 

I  know  it  by  the  maiden's  sigh, 
The  pale,  pale  cheek  and  tearful  eye  ; 
The  heart  that's  rendered  comfortless : 
This  world  is  all  a  wilderness. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  231 

I  know  it  by  the  sighing  breeze, 
Th'  autumnal  dirge,  the  falling  leaves, 
And  biting  frost's  spring  flowers  caress — 
This  world  is  all  a  wilderness. 

I  know  it  by  the  broken  heart 
And  wild  despair,  by  misery's  dart, 
And  inad  ambition  doth  confess, 
This  world  to  be  a  wilderness. 

Pale  melancholy's  tears  and  sighs, 
And  stern  contention's  flashing  eyes, 
And  virtue  fallen — all  address, 
Whispering  "  This  world's  a  wilderness.*' 


REPLY    TO    WILLIAM. 

THIS  world's  a  wilderness — of  flowers : 
J  know  it  by  its  blooming  bowers, 

That  blossom  in  the  Spring  ; 
Where  the  Arcadian  roses  blow, 
And  morning's  joyful  anthems  flow 

To  Heaven  in  offering. 

Where  twilight's  stillness  gently  falls 
Around  the  landscape,  and  recalls 

The  minstrel  of  the  even ; 
The  grasshopper,  that  pensive  sings 
His  song  in  plaintive  murmurings, 

Amid  the  dews  of  Heaven. 


232  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Where  stars  from  lofty  thrones  on  high, 
Look  down  upon  the  scene  and  sigh 

To  kiss  a  world  so  fair  ; 
And  all  the  live-long  night  hestow 
Its  glances  on  its  form  below, 

Like  lovers  in  despair. 

This  world's  a  wilderness  of  light, 
Where  love,  and  song,  and  heauty  hright, 

Each  day,  and  night,  and  noon, 
Assemble  their  respects  to  pay, 
And  homage  to  the  god  of  day, 

And  to  the  queenly  moon. 

I  know  this  world's  a  wilderne??, 
But  'tis  of  happiness  and  bliss, 

If  we  but  make  it  so ; 
'Tis  passion,  pride,  remorse  and  sin 
In  us — and  not  the  world  we're  in, 

Makes  it  a  world  of  woe. 

The  storm  that  gathers  in  the  cloud, 
The  tempest  that  complains  aloud, 
Have  blessings  still  in  store  ; 
Upon  a  wild  and  stormy  wing 
'Tis  to  the  flower  and  field  they  bring 
The  sweet  refreshing  shower. 

The  bounded  view  which  only  sees 
A  world  of  pain  and  miseries, 

Beholds  with  jaundiced  eyes  ; 
The  heart  that  sorrows  o'er  its  state, 
And  mourns  its  own  and  other's  fate, 

Hath  borrowed  all  its  sighs. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  233 

This  world,  so  made  for  man's  repose, 
His  fancy  has  supplied  with  woes, 

Because  misunderstood  ; 
A  little  knowledge  would  have  told 
Him,  dross  is  ever  found  with  gold, 

The  evil  with  the  good. 

The  sweets  of  life  would  all  be  thrown 
Away,  if  we  had  never  known 

The  wormwood  and  the  gall ; 
By  tasting  joy,  and  tasting  pain, 
A  knowledge  of  the  place  we  gain 

VVhere-drops  of  honey  fall. 


FALLEN  LEAVES. 

1  TREAD  upon  the  fallen  leaves  around  me, 

Where  I  have  passed  the  summer's  golden  hours, 
Where  thrilling  notes  from  happy  birds  have  bound  me, 

Amid  the  foliage  green  and  blooming  flowers  ; 
With  pensive  steps  and  solemn  thoughts  I  wander 

Among  the  scattered  relics  of  the  year, 
Upon  the  blissful  past  I  sweetly  ponder, 

And  o'er  the  gloomy  present  drop  a  tear. 

Where  songs  of  gladness  struck  the  chords  of  feeling, 

With  joyful  and  inimitable  tones  ; 
Where  balmy  airs  among  the  blossoms  stealing, 

Saluted  nature  on  her  thdusand  thrones. 
I  hear  no  sound  except  the  fruitage  falling, 

Or  distant  murmurs  from  the  village  swain, 
20* 


234  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Or  e'en  some  lost  and  lonely  robin  calling 
Unto  its  mate  it  ne'er  shall  see  again. 

Pensive  I  seek  the  silver  fretted  river, 

Where  Summer's  moonbeams  danced  upon  its  wave, 
I  see  it  cold  and  placid  with  a  shiver — 

The  fallen  leaves  have  found  it  for  a  grave ; 
Green  were  its  banks,  and  blossoms  hung  around  it, 

When  Summer  dropped  its  fragrance  on  its  shore, 
But  thorns,  alas  !  and  briars  have  closely  bound  it, 

Its  banks  are  green,  its  waters  bright  no  more. 

I  climb  the  hill-top,  gaze  upon  the  ocean, 

To  see  its  islands  green,  and  gaily  dressed, 
But  all  is  warfare  there  and  wild  commotion, 

No  islands  bloom  upon  its  heaving  breast ; 
Blue  were  its  waters,  when  the  Summer  blended 

its  green  and  gala  islands  with  the  sea, 
How  soon  that  scene  of  dazzling  beauty  ended — 

There's  nothing  left  but  sadness  umto  me. 

Where  shall  I  worship — since  all  nature  fading, 

With  every  scene  I  loved  so  dearly — wars. 
Have  I  no  idols  1  yes,  I  see  them  wading 

Along  another  sphere — the  heavenly  stars  ; 
Oh  !  I  will  gaze  upon  their  mystic  glory, 

Since  it  is  held  before  my  wond'ring  eye — 
When  the  green  earth  is  frosted  o'er  and  hoary, 

My  muse's  worship,  shall  the  stars  supply. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  235 

THOUGHTS    AT   SEA. 

How  strange  we  live,  how  thoughtlessly, 

Upon  this  life's  deceitful  sea — 

Upon  the  treacherous  waves  that  bore 

Our  good  old  fathers,  now  no  more  ; 

The  summers  bland,  the  winters  bleak, 

The  same  soft  gale  upon  the  cheek, 

The  drops  of  bliss,  the  sea  of  cares, 

And  all  our  hopes  and  fears  were  theirs  ; 

Then  let  us  every  hour  employ, 

On  pleasure's  harp,  and  strike  for  joy. 

Like  us,  they  breasted  storms  and  rain, 
Some  real  good,  or  false,  to  gain — 
Like  ours,  their  hopes  would  oft  beguile, 
And  disappointment  crown  their  toil ; 
They  sipped  the  nectar  of  their  day, 
And  drank  the  poison  of  decay — 
Had  hopes,  fond  hopes,  and  warm  desires, 
And  died,  alas  !  our  good  old  sires  ; 
Then  let  us  every  hour  employ, 
On  duty's  harp,  and  strike  for  joy. 

The  stream  we  sail  so  swiftly  o'er, 
Its  multitudes  hath  borne  before — 
Alike  the  sad,  the  gay,  and  grave, 
Pursued  the  bubble  on  its  wave — 
With  nights  of  care,  and  days  of  toil, 
Ere  they  laid  down  "  this  mortal  coil ;" 
What  time  they  lived,  what  time  they  died, 
The  tomb  relates — go  read  it,  pride  ! 
Then  let  us  every  hour  employ, 
On  wisdom's  harp,  and  strike  for  joy. 


236  MISCELLANEOUS. 

The  expectation  that  our  star 
Is  brighter  than  our  father's  were, 
And  that  our  gales  through  life,  will  be 
All  fair,  will  prove  a  fallacy— 
For  so  did  theirs — the  dead  and  gone — 
'Tis  written  on  the  cold  gray  stone  : 
"  Here  lieth  one  whose  morning  fair, 
Gave  hopes  of  bliss — but  ended  there ;" 
Then  let  us  every  hour  employ, 
On  virtue's  harp,  and  strike  for  joy. 

Oh  !  let  us  all  our  friends  embrace, 
Before  we  reach  our  resting  place, 
Down  in  the  deep,  oblivious  sea, 
Where  rusheth  all  mortality  ; 
We  are  but  shadows,  and  we  fly, 
Like  shadows,  o'er  life's  scenery — 
O'er  spots  of  green  and  worlds  of  waste, 
And  leave  our  pathway  all  untraced, 
Then  let  us  every  hour  employ, 
On  friendship's  harp,  and  strike  for  joy. 

But  shadows  though  we  seem  to  be, 

Shadows  betray  reality — % 

And  though  on  death's  dark  wave  we're  cast, 

Hope  hath  an  anchor  strong  and  fast, 

Which  she  holds  out,  with  blissful  smiles, 

Around  her  green  enchanted  isles — 

The  same  they  used  in  days  of  yore, 

Our  good  old  fathers,  now  no  more ; 

Then  let  us  every  hour  employ. 

On  hope's  bright  harp,  and  strike  for  joy. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  237 

THE    PAST   VS.  THE    PRESENT. 

Ye  great-gran d-mas  and  ancient  crones, 
Who  taught  our  childhood  wonder  tales, 

Of  fairies  flitting  through  the  zones, 
Holding  their  broomsticks  up  for  sails — 

Of  gipsies,  genii,  ghosts  and  witches, 

And  jack-a-lantern  swanips  and  ditches. 

Could  ye  have  lived  to  hear  me  tell, 

What  here  I  purpose  to  essay, 
In  this  wayfaring  doggerel, 

Your  pinch  of  Scotch  would  melt  away — 
Your  needles  have  spasmodic  twiches, 
And  run  quite  mad  around  the  stitches. 

First,  then,  your  racers  of  the  air, 

Those  capering  wights  around  the  moon — 

I  fancy  they  would  scarcely  dare, 
To  navigate  the  gas-balloon, 

That  sweeps  o'er  states,  and  soon  dispatches 

A  distance  that  astounds  the  watches. 

The  fair,  and  not  the  fairies  ride, 

The  whirlwind  in  a  car  they  crowd — 
Beauty  and  blushes,  bona-fide, 

Attend  the  levee  of  the  cloud ; 
The  beau  on  earth  in  vain  beseeches, 
The  kiss  he  claims,  the  rainbow  reaches. 

Our  rail-roads  too,  I  much  opine, 

Could  they  have  seen  the  whizzing  cars, 
As  we  do  on  the  Amboy  line, 


238  MISCELALNEOUS. 

They  would  amazed,  exclaim  "  My  stars, 
These  beat  our  racing  imps  and  witches, 
For  to  one's  tail,  a  hundred  hitches !" 

And  then  our  steam-boats,  how  they  go 
They'd  stood  aghast  at  such  a  sight — 

A  jack-o-lantern  at  each  prow — 
Of  full  five  hundred  every  night, 

That  almost  in  a  twinkling  snatches 

Us  fast  asleep,  from  Maine  to  Natchez. 

Our  grand-ma  dearly  loved  her  coin, 
And  in  a  mitten  kept  it  snug — 

Full  fifty  when  she  put  her  paw  in — 
Bright  coppers  she  would  closely  hug. 

Whew  !  what  if  she  could  feel  the  riches, 

The  paper  dollars  in  our  breeches  ! 

Our  grand-ma  was  not  spare  of  words, 

She  had  a  tongue  and  she  could  talk 

A  half  an  hour,  perchance  two-thirds, 

But  then  she  always  stopt  to  hawk — 
What,  if  she'd  heard  our  seven-day  speeches, 
"  Joan  of  Arc,"  she'd  cried,  "  egregious." 

But  wonder  ceases  now  to  stare, 
And  admiration  groweth  pale, 

Our  great-grand-mas  are  getting  rare. 
Those  that  will  venture  on  a  tale 

For  every  day's  invention  hatches, 

A  story  equal  to  Sam  Patch's. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  239 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  FAVORITE  MARE. 

I  KNEW  by  her  mane,  all  besprinkled  with  grey, 
And  the  dawn  of  her  thirtieth  year, 

And  her  slow  moving  pace,  that  the  steps  of  decay 
Were  bringing  life's  period  near. 

With  grief  I  surveyed  the  change  time  had  made, 
In  that  form  which  my  boyhood  caressed  ; 

And  regretted  the  end  of  so  faithful  a  friend, 
For  with  her  was  my  infancy  blessed. 

I  remembered  the  days  of  her  glory  and  pride, 
They  were  all  dressed  in  sunshine  and  flowers, 

And  'twas  painful  to  see  her  once  glossy  side, 
Exposed  to  the  cold  wind  and  showers. 

'Twas  hard,  when  dejected,  and  feeble,  and  old, 

To  see  her  so  patient  and  mild, 
Turned  away  from  the  stable  to  buffet  the  cold, 

For  oft  we  together  had  toiled. 

And  I  thought  of  a  creature  so  faithful  and  kind, 

If  the  world  be  ungrateful  to  thee, 
To  a  being  who  boasts  an  intelligent  mind, 

'Tis  a  warning  and  lesson  to  me. 

When  age  o'er  the  friend  of  life's  lovely  morn, 
Comes  in  concert  with  want  and  with  woe, 

To  remember  their  care,  nor  forget  to  return 
The  debt  and  the  duty  I  owe. 


240  MISCELLANEOUS. 

THE   ICICLE. 

ONE  morning  I  took  a  ramble  out, 
To  see  what  the  elements  were  about, 

On  a  cold  and  frosty  day  ; 
An  icicle  stood  up  in  my  path, 
And  I  kicked  it  away  in  silent  wrath, 

This  icicle  in  my  way. 

But  a  second  thought  came  to  me  then  : 

'Twas  that  there  is  much  may  be  learned  by  men, 

In  all  that  God  has  made  ; 
From  the  brightest  stars  that  gem  the  sky, 
To  the  smallest  dust,  that  escapes  the  eye, 

His  reasoning  power  to  aid. 

Then  I  took  the  icicle  in  my  hand, 

And  saw  with  delight  how  fair  t'was  planned, 

And  beautiful  to  the  view  ; 
How  played  around  it,  a  thousand  rays, 
And  reflected  about  the  solar  blaze, 

In  every  form  and  hue. 

How  in  this  bright  and  pellucid  gem, 
There  stood  imprisoned  a  grassy  stem, 

Just  visible  to  the  eye  ; 
How  around  this  stem,  its  robes  of  light, 
Had  gathered  in  a  single  night, 

So  grand  and  gloriously. 

Then  my  awakened  thoughts  began, 
To  compare  the  icicle  with  man, 
The  resemblance  t>j  find ; 


MISCELLANEOUS.  241 

Round  what  a  feeble  helpless  mass, 
Just  like  that  little  spire  of  grass, 
Gathers  his  glorious  mind. 

Ray  after  ray  from  the  stores  of  light, 
Sparkle  and  blaze  on  his  inner  sight, 

Like  gems  of  a  forming  star  ; 
Day  after  day,  year  after  year, 
Assembling  a  brightness  around  its  sphere, 

For  the  world  of  his  mind  to  wear. 

Then  since  in  a  little  icicle, 

Such  themes  for  thought  are  found  to  dwell, 

Which  every  foot  may  spurn. 
Oh  !  let  us  remember  the  earth  is  full, 
Of  wisdom,  and  truth,  inexhaustible, 

And  wonder,  admire,  and  learn. 


THE   MUSKRAT. 

THE  Muskrat  builds  him  a  pyramid, 

In  the  rushes  snug  and  warm, 
And  all  the  winter  he  keeps  him  hid, 
For  he  knows  how  much  for  his  skin  is  bid, 

That  protects  him  from  cold  and  storm. 

He's  a  thirsty  blade,  and  no  mistake, 

As  his  habits  plainly  tell, 
For  he  builds  his  castle  within  a  lake, 
And  day  or  night,  he  his  thirst  can  slake, 

For  within  it  he  keeps  a  well. 
21 


242  MISCELLANEOUS. 

He's  a  dainty  beau,  for  he  bathes  him  oft, 

Just  like  an  Eastern  Shah  ; 
And  then  he  siestas,  within  his  loft, 
His  coat  is  smooth,  and  fine,  and  soft, 

"With  an  essence  so  grateful ah  ! 

He's  a  gallant  chap,  for  he  keeps  his  wives, 

As  snug  as  a  nabob  king  ; 
For  under  the  water,  they  say  he  dives 
With  them,  when  a  stranger  rat  arrives, 

But  I  guess  there  is  no  such  thing.  , 

He  has  not  a  taste  for  pageant  and  show, 

For  he  keeps  himself  at  home ; 
He  takes  a  look  at  the  weather  though, 
But  he  cares  not  a  fig  for  the  rain  or  snow,— 
If  it  comes,  he  says,  "  there  is  room." 

He  lays  him  down  on  his  mossy  bed, 

And  there  all  winter  he  lies ; 
Until  the  snow  and  the  ice  have  fled, 
And  the  sun  peeps  into  his  rustic  shed, 

And  tells  him  'tis  time  to  rise. 

'Tis  a  pleasant  thing  to  live  beneath 

The  water,  or  on  the  land  ; 
For  'tis  a  trouble  to  always  breathe, 
And  to  always  think — and  the  Muskrat's  Lethe, 

Oh  !  'tis  superbly  grand. 

But  to  be  a  prince,  and  to  walk  or  swim, 

And  to  breathe  or  not,  the  air  ; 
To  own  a  castle,  and  live  so  trim, 
And  to  have  of  wives  a  whole  Harem — 
'Tis  more  than  I  could  bear. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  243 


THE    EAGLE   AND   HAWK — A    FACT. 

AN  eagle  was  prowling  over  a  bay, 

Around  the  ether,  watching  for  prey — 

While  the  hawks  were  fishing  around  for  plaice,* 

An  industrious  but  an  humble  race. 

His  feelings  were  proud,  and  his  bearing  high, 
As  he  sailed  around  the  azure  sky, 
And  he  looked  with  scorn  on  the  drudging  mass, 
For  he  did  not  belong  to  the  laboring  class. 

"  Let  them  fish,"  said  he,  "  and  when  they  hare  caught 

A  good  one,  I'll  seize  it  as  quick  as  thought, 

And  then  I'll  banquet  on  their  toil, 

And  they  may  dine  on  nothing  the  while." 

The  fishing-hawks  were  all  intent, 
In  watching  the  fish  in  their  element. 
And  many  a  fruitless  plunge  they  made, 
Although  adepts  in  the  fishing  trade. 

And  all  unconscious  were  they  of  fear, 
For  they  saw  no  sign  of  an  enemy  near ; 
For  the  eagle  had  wound  himself  so  high, 
As  scarce  to  be  seen  with  the  naked  eye. 

But  one  at  last  made  a  fortunate  dire, 
And  caught  a  flounder  kicking  alive, 
And  after  giving  himself  a  shake, 
His  course  to  his  nest  was  about  to  take. 

*  Plaice,  or  flat  fish. 


244  MISCELLANEOUS. 

But  the  eagle  plainly  saw  all  that  past, 
And  he  thought  it  time  to  break  his  fast ; 
So  he  set  his  wings  like  a  bird  that's  slain, 
And  come  rushing  down  like  a  hurricane. 

Like  a  thunderbolt,  darting  on  its  way, 
Crash,  came  the  eagle  upon  his  prey, 
Then  the  hawk  gave  one  agonizing  cry, 
And  fell  on  the  hard,  cold  earth  to  die. 

But  the  fish  was  caught  before  it  fell, 
By  the  eagle,  who  bore  it  away  with  a  yell. 
I  saw  it  all,  and  my  "  dander  riz," 
And  I  cursed  the  eagle,  and  all  of  his. 

And  oft  this  happens  the  poor  man's  fate. 
Who  rises  early,  and  works  'till  late ; 
After  obtaining  a  pittance  small, 
Comes  a  nobler  thief,  and  takes  it  all. 


MY   PILLOW. 

OH  !  tell  me  not  that  gold  can  bless, 
Or  all  this  wide  world  can  possess — 
I  value  all  its  pleasures  less; 
Than  thy  exquisite  soft  caress, 

My  pillow. 

When  much  oppressed  with  grief  and  care, 
I  to  my  lowly  couch  repair, 
(For  piety  is  pleasant  there,) 
To  lisp  upon  thy  down  a  prayer, 

My  pillow. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  245 

Oft  have  my  slumbers  made  appear, 
Some  dreadful  monster  drawing  near — 
And  I  have  sweat  and  quaked  with  fear — 
And  waking,  joyed  that  thou  wert  near, 

My  pillow. 

When  the  gay  heaven  is  overcast, 
And  polar  air  hath  steel'd  the  blast — 
To  dream  upon  the  flowery  past, 
With  joy  I  to  thy  bosom  haste, 

My  pillow. 

Oft  have  I,  in  the  evening  gale, 
When  blossoms  in  the  breezes  sail, 
To  muse  upon  its  solemn  wail — 
Made  the  wild  roses  of  the  vale, 

My  pillow. 

When  far  from  home  and  friends  I  stray, 
How  pleasant  and  how  short  the  way, 
To  meet  them  all,  and  chat  and  play — 
Carried  by  thee,  as  calm  I  lay, 

My  pillow. 

When  proud  and  wicked  people  try, 
To  cast  on  me  a  scornful  eye, 
And  lift  their  silly  heads  so  high — 
Oft  thou  hast  told  me  they  must  die, 

My  pillow. 

When  in  some  land  I've  wished  to  be, 
Some  green,  green  isle,  in  some  blue  sea, 
21* 


246  MISCELLANEOUS. 

I've  courted  thy  sweet  company — 

Of  all  bright  worlds  thou  hast  the  key, 

My  pillow. 

When  sickness  o'er  me  comes,  and  woe, 
Like  rolling  floods  when  tempests  blow, 
And  ebbing  life  has  lost  its  glow, 
What  can  o'er  all,  oblivion  throw  1 

My  pillow. 

When  life  shall  no  gay  prospect  lend, 
And  twilight  shadows  round  descend, 
And  downward  to  the  tomb  I  tend, 
I'll  make  of  thee  a  constant  friend, 

My  pillow. 


THE    ANCIENT   MAIDEN. 

I'M  now  almost  sixty — the  season  is  o'er — 
I  climbed  up  the  mountain  cr  fled  to  the  shore  ; 
The  pride  of  the  earth,  and  the  charms  of  the  sea, 
Have  lost  all  their  glory  and  grandeur  to  me. 

The  glow  of  the  daisy  is  unrivalled  still, 
That  modestly  waves  on  the  side  ef  the  hill  -, 
The  fir,  and  cedar,  arise  as  sublime 
As  they  did  in  the  days  of  king  Solomon's  time. 

It  is  not  that  nature  is  prone  to  decay, 
Or  reluctant,  her  art  or  address  to  display, 
That  the  charms  of  her  pencil  refuse  to  appear, 
In  the  splendor  they  did  in  my  twentieth  year. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  247 

But  time  from  my  brow  with  a  diligent  hand, 
Each  year  plucks  a  flower  for  the  loss  of  his  sand, 
And  leaves  in  its  place,  an  old  wrinkle  or  frown, 
To  fright  from  me  every  sweet  heau  in  the  town. 

They  told  me  my  features  were  formed  to  beguile, 
And  the  red  on  my  cheek  was  the  primrose's  soil — 
That  my  birth  it  was  under  a  beautiful  star, 
And  my  fame  should  excel  all  the  families  far. 

And  vanity  now  the  fond  libel  to  read, 
My  steps  to  the  toilet  will  oftentimes  lead, 
And  flatter  me  so,  with  an  elegant  air, 
I  think  myself  still  to  be  tolerably  fair. 

And  oft  when  my  cap  is  put  gracefully  on, 
I  muse  on  the  conquests  my  youthfulness  won, 
And  fancy  some  traces  of  beauty  remain, 
As  I  glance  to  the  mirror  again  and  again. 


OPEN   THE    DOOR. 

A  HUMBLE  bard,  with  simple  strain, 
Appeals,  my  wealthy  friends,  again, 

In  favor  of  the  poor ; 
Hunger,  with  sad,  beseeching  eyes, 
And  nakedness,  imploring  cries, 
"  Open  to  us  the  door." 

'Tis  winter,  and  how  many,  cold, 

Sick  and  dejected,  young  and  old, 

Their  wretchedness  deplore ; 


248  MISCELLANEOUS. 

And  without  fire,  or  food,  or  friend, 
Over  their  miseries  they  bend — 
Open  the  cellar  door. 

How  many,  destitute  of  bread, 

To  our  own  plenteous  land  have  fled, 

Oppression's  rod  before ; 
Their's  is  no  common  tale  of  woe — 
Their  country,  all  is  lost  below — 

Open  the  generous  door. 

Many  a  pious  orphan  son, 

Or  father  with  his  mourning  on, 

And  head  all  silvered  o'er — 
A  last  asylum,  and  a  home, 
They  ask,  while  trembling  o'er  the  tomb — 

Open  to  them  the  door. 

The  gallant  Pole  his  native  soil — 
The  exile  of  the  Emerald  isle- 
Have  left  to  see  no  more ; 
Ye  who  have  homes,  and  joy,  and  mirth, 
And  comforts  round  the  lighted  hearth, 
Open  to  them  the  door\ 

Unfeeling  sure,  must  be  the  man, 
Ungrateful  to  his  God,  who  can 

Behold  the  poor  implore, 
For  something  their  life  to  sustain, 
Or  shelter  from  the  cold  and  rain, 

And  turp  and  shut  the  door. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  249 

Oh  no  !  with  us  it  must  not  be — 
We  know  not  our  own  destiny — 

Ours  is  a  borrowed  store ;  . 
Heaven  sends  us  rain  and  genial  dew, 
And  spring  its  bounties  shall  renew — 

Heaven  does  not  shut  the  door. 

Then  let  your  purses,  one  and  all, 
Be  opened  wide,  at  mercy's  call — 

Heaven  will  the  gift  restore  ; 
If  we  shall  e'er  admittance  crave, 
To  happiness  beyond  the  grave — • 

'Twill  open  us  the  door. 


WHEN  the  trees  are  blooming, 

Breathing  through  their  leave; 
And  the  flowers  assuming, 

What  the  earth  receives — 
Beauty,  from  the  starry 

Firmament  of  blue — 
Vigor,  from  the  airy 

Freshness  of  the  dew. 

When  the  ant  is  heaving 

Up  his  hillock  high, 
And  the  spider  weaving 

Netting  for  the  fly, 
And  the  fire-fly  hunting 

Up  his  truant  bride, 


250  MISCELLANEOUS. 

With  his  fiery  bunting 
Blazing  by  his  side. 

When  the  larvae  rises 

From  its  earthly  cell, 
Leaving  its  disguises 

Nothing  but  a  shell — 
Dressing  in  its  gauzes, 

Blue,  and  white,  and  green, 
Is  with  loud  applauses, 

Hailed  a  nation's  queen.* 

When  the  wily  cricket, 

For  his  sooty  race, 
Opens  wide  the  wicket 

Of  his  hiding  place, 
Leads  his  dark  guerrillas, 

Where  the  butter  flows, 
In  the  lady's  cellars, 

Piping  as  he  goes. 

When  the  grub  is  groping 

Through  the  darksome  earth, 
And  perchance  is  hoping 

For  a  second  birth  ; 
In  some  brighter  region, 

With  a  brace  of  wings, 
Joined  unto  a  legion 

Of  such  gaudy  things. 


*The  Queen  Bee, 


MISCELLANEOUS.  251 

Then  my  pretty  maiden 

Hearken  unto  me, 
For  my  verse  is  laden 

With  advice  to  thee ; 
When  thy  lover  presses, 

Who  so  long  has  plead, 
Welcome  his  addresses, 

For  'tis  time  to  wed. 


MY  CHILDHOOD'S  LOVE. 

ONE  evening  soft,  and  calm  and  mild, 
When  people  thought  me  but  a  child, 

All  unsuspecting  I 

Was  bound  by  love,  and  then  betrayed 
Unto  a  sweet,  unconscious  maid, 

Beauty's  own  imagery. 

'Twas  Summer,  beautiful  and  bright, 
The  moon  sent  down  celestial  light 

To  play  o'er  stream  and  hill ; 
And  in  a  wood  that  blossomed  near, 
A  serenade  addressed  the  ear, 

Played  by  the  whippowil. 

We  met,  a  joy  bewildered  band, 
Leading  each  other  by  the  hand, 

To  sport  among  the  trees  ; 
Gay  nymphs  among  the  trees  to  hide, 
And  swains  to  seek  and  win  a  bride 

With  kisses  should  they  please. 


252  MISCELLANEOUS.    " 

Among  the  rest  I  swiftly  strove, 
To  single  out  my  lady  love, 

The  fairest  of  the  fair, 
Of  that  delighted,  sportive  train, 
But  long  I  tried  the  race  in  vain 

Through  that  enchanted  air. 

The  blue  eyed  damsel  caught  at  last, 
I  fondly  to  my  bosom  pressed, 

All  blushing  like  the  rose, 
When  first  it  meets  th'  embrace  of  day, 
Some  tender  bud  of  gentle  May, 

That  hangs  its  head  and  glows. 

No  mortal  eye  that  first  caress 
Could  see  in  all  its  loveliness, 

And  not  enraptured  own, 
That  there  are  still  upon  the  earth 
Moments  that  seem  of  heavenly  birth, 

Alas  !  how  quickly  flown. 

A  change  came  o'er  that  moonlit  scene, 
That  shone  so  fairy  and  serene — 

Pale  nature  wore  a  frown, 
The  sky  assumed  a  murky  hue, 
The  lightning  flashed,  the  hoarse  wind  blew; 

The  rain  came  rushing  down. 

That  night  I  saw  my  angel  dear, 
Shiv'ring  with  cold  and  pale  with  fear. 
Enter  her  parent's  home— 


MISCELLANEOUS.  253 

Alas !  that  fatal  night— no  more 
She  passed  the  flower-encircled  door, 
Death's  messenger  had  come. 

Swift  the  fell  demons  of  decay, 
Feasted  upon  the  lovely  prey, 

Whilst  I,  like  one  amazed, 
To  see  the  wreck  of  life  and  love, 
Come  like  a  judgment  from  above, 

Upon  the  victim  gazed. 

Like  one  indulged  a  glimpse  of  heaven. 
From  its  bright  portals  to  be  driven 

When  all  he  thought  his  own — 
So  I  sat  down,  with  dark  despair 
The  remnant  of  my  days  to  share, 

To  sorrow  and  to  mourn. 


TO  THE  SOUTH  WIND. 

COME  gentle  wind  from  beauty's  isles, 

The  isles  of  evergreen, 
And  bring  rejoicing  days  and  smiles, 

And  evenings  soft,  serene. 

Fond  mem'ry  binds  our  hearts  to  thee, 

As  to  an  absent  friend, 
Whom  hope,  far  o'er  the  ocean  lea, 

Hath  promised  us  to  send. 

We  sit  alone  and  contemplate 
The  hills  deserted,  bare, 
22 


254  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Or  walking  mourn  the  rallies  fate, 
So  desolate  they  are. 

Come  kiss  the  purling  brook,  and  steal 

Among  the  waiting  trees, 
And  on  the  river's  banks  reveal 

Thy  thousand  melodies. 

"Whisper  among  the  silent  boughs 

Thy  balmy  presence  near  ; 
And  where  the  sleeping  buds  repose, 

Waft  morning's  genial  tear. 

Awaken  with  thy  lisping  voice 

The  slumber  of  the  bee  ; 
Tell  wandering  swallows  to  rejoice, 

As  they  twitter  o'er  the  sea. 

Array  the  worm  and  butter-fly, 

The  cricket's  song  recall, 
And  with  thy  soft  and  mellow  sigh, 

Bid  showers  like  blessings  fall. 

Bring  pleasure  to  the  mourning  vales, 

And  music  to  the  fields, 
And  on  thy  glad  and  kindly  gales 

The  health— their  freshness  yields. 

Bring  flowers — and  sweet  bewitching  lays, 
And  scenes  all  soft  and  fair, 

And  birds,  with  wildly  gushing  praise. 
And  incense  on  the  air. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  255 

So  shall  our  hearts  once  more  awako 

To  nature's  lovely  charm?, 
And  inspiration  haste  to  take 

Us  joyful  to  her  arms. 


OLD  Winter  has  crept  from  his  icicle  den, 

After  so  many  months  he  is  coming  again  ; 

But  though  he  comes  roaring,  rough  shod  from  the  pole, 

He'll  do  us  a  kindness,  I  think  on  the  whole. 

The  crusty  old  cruiser,  I  like  him  somehow — 
He's  like  an  old  sailor,  with  truth  at  his  prow — 
From  his  trumpet  northwestern,  he  speaks  us  before 
He  puts  his  cold  hand  on  the  latch  of  the  door. 

Like  a  hurly  old  boatswain,  hard  featured  and  bin?, 
He  whistles  so  shrill,  that  he  quite  chills  us  through, 
With  "All  hands  upon  deck,  put  your  helm  hard  a-port, 
Prepare  for  the  worst,  my  Jack  Tars,  that's  the  sort." 

He's  a  doctor,  also,  for  the  fever  he'll  cure, 
Though  the  pill  he  prescribes,  be  a  bitter  one  sure, 
For  he  binds  us  with  frost,  and  he  probes  us  with  cold. 
Then  he  knocks  us  about  with  his  hailstones,  behold  ! 

The  clamorous  old  croaker,  he's  never  at  rest, 

I  like  his  rough  eloquence,  distant  the  best, 

For  he  speaks  me  so  close,  and  harangues  me  so  near, 

He  once  bit  me  off  a  good  piece  of  my  ear. 


256  MISCELLANEOUS. 

One  morning  he  came  in  a  rage  to  my  door, 

His  looks  were  as  frosty  as  fretful  fourscore ; 

But  with  a  hot  poker  I  just  let  him  know, 

He  had  no  business  there,  and  'twas  high  time  to  go. 

He  cares  not  for  politics,  never  a  fig, 

Like  a  tyrant  he  rules  over  tory  and  whig ; 

But  the  spoils  of  an  office,  he  likes  very  well, 

For  they  smooth  his  old  brow,  and  his  wrinkles  dispel. 

But,  though  with  ill  usage  he's  black-guard  and  bluff, 
By  a  fire  he's  a  pleasant  companion  enough — 
With  good  cheer,  and  good  quarters,  and  money  to  spare, 
I've  been  in  worse  company,  oft  I  declare. 


The  scene  of  the  following  description  lies  near  the  residence  of 
Capt.  Lyndes  King,  on  the  east  end  of  Long  Island,  where  the  an- 
tiquities referred  to  can  be  seen  at  any  time. 

THE  ISLE  OP  CEDARS* 

1  KNOW  an  Isle,  not  of  the  seas, 
That  has  been  an  isle  for  centuries, 

Of  trees,  and  shrubs,  and  flowers ; 
Solemn  and  sad,  alone,  I  ween, 
It  blooms  a  stately  evergreen, 
Almost  unnoticed  and  unseen, 

Basking  in  suns  and  showers. 

Bordered  by  meadows  green  and  gray, 
It  stands  beside  a  silvery  bay, 


MISCELLANEOUS.  257 

With  waters  calm  and  clear ; 
Among  its  firs,  the  willow  weeps, 
While  silence  on  its  bosom  sleeps, 
And  solitude  forever  keeps 

Its  habitation  here. 

Unmoved,  its  cedars  seem  to  stand, 
Like  warriors  of  a  giant  band, 

Though  tempests  rend  the  sky  ; 
Unscathed  they  stand  the  shock  of  time, 
The  tempest  and  the  wintry  clime, 
Awful,  imposing  and  sublime, 

Waving  their  plumes  on  high. 

Within  its  deep  recess  appears 
A  monument  of  former  years — 

An  Indian  fort  and  mound  ; 
The  broken  shaft,  and  pointed  shell, 
Found  in  the  deep  and  buried  cell, 
Unto  the  contemplative  tell 

Of  a  fierce  battle  ground. 

The  records  of  the  endless  past, 
Are  lost  upon  the  gloomy  waste, 

Of  all-devouring  time ; 
The  ambush,  and  the  daring  deed, 
The  chief  impaled,  the  captive  freed — 
The  shadows  of  the  past— forbid 

Our  late  discovered  clime. 

But  still  enough  remains  to  show, 
A  race  of  warriors  long  ago, 
Were  tenants  of  its  soil ; 
22* 


258  MISCELLANEOUS. 

A  hardy,  wild,  and  tameless  race, 
Of  war  the  sons,  and  of  the  chase, 
Whose  deeds  are  read,  and  resting  place, 
In  fragments,  and  in  spoil. 

And  here  in  this  secluded  glen, 
These  relics  show  these  warlike  men 

Reposed  themselves  the  while ; 
When  war  with  man,  or  war  with  beast, 
Success,  or  victory,  released 
Them,  to  rejoice,  and  dance,  and  feast, 

To  recompense  their  toil. 

And  now  these  cedars  that  appear 
So  reverential  and  austere, 

A  monumental  pile ; 
Seem  to  relate  how  firm  they  stood, 
When  some  wild  foeman  of  the  wood, 
Found,  and  with  hideous  yell  subdued 

Them  in  their  "  Cedar  Isle." 


GREENPORT,    L.  I. 

WHERE  good  old  Suffolk  spreads  her  arms, 
A  lovely  bay  presents  its  charms, 

All  spangled  o'er  with  sails ; 
By  night,  and  day,  that  spacious  bay, 
Business  and  life,  and  wealth  display, 
And  gallant  vessels,  trim  and  gay, 
Wafted  by  island  gales. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  259 


Its  waters  smooth  as  melted  ore, 
Securely  kiss  its  peaceful  shore, 

Skirted  by  isles  around ; 
And  isthmuses,  and  bars  and  shoals, 
That  as  the  great  Atlantic  rolls, 
The  rushing  giant  safely  holds 

Within  his  proper  bound. 

First,  Gardner's  Island,  like  a  rock, 
Breaks  off  the  sea,  from  old  Montauk, 

A  pier,  by  Nature  planned. 
And  then  Plumb  Island  locked  between 
The  sound,  and  bay,  doth  intervene. 
Just  like  an  emerald  bright  and  green, 

Upon  a  lady's  hand. 

Near  where  old  Sterling's  hamlet  stood, 
In  sweet  and  happy  solitude, 

Behold  our  city  rise ! 
Destined  in  future  times  to  be 
The  mart  of  every  land  and  sea, 
And  distancing  all  rivalry, 

In  wealth  and  enterprise. 

A  channel  from  the  ocean  tide, 
Deep,  safe,  and  beautiful,  and  wide, 

Meanders  at  her  feet ; 
And  winding  onward  still  its  way, 
It  finds  the  smooth,  Peconic  bay, 
Where  Robin's  vocal  isle  doth  lay, 

And  rival  waters  meet. 


260  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Five  hundred  ships  may  safely  ride, 
Abreast  her  green,  ascending  side, 

And  storm  and  wave  defy  ; 
And  listen  to  old  Neptune's  roar, 
If  he  his  wrath  indignant  pour 
Upon  Easthampton's  fated  shore, 

In  calm  security. 

Brooklyn  from  her  majestic  height, 
May  well  look  down  upon  the  site 

Of  this  young  sister  fair  ! 
And  fondly  take  her  by  the  hand, 
And  by  a  double  railroad  band, 
Her  rising  usefulness  command, 

And  wealth  and  grandeur  share. 

Then  see  Long  Island ;  pleasant  line, 
Resplendant  with  improvement  shine, 

Between  its  cities  bright, 
For  each  a  rural  paradise, 
Where  wealth  pours  out  his  golden  prize, 
And  towns  and  villages  arise. 

And  mansions  of  delight. 


I  KNOW  the  Spring  has  come  again, 
I  know  it  by  the  showers  of  rain, 

And  by  the  kildeer's  call ; 
And  by  the  robin's  simpering, 
As  though  she  would  but  dare  not  sing, 
And  by  the  lambkin's  gambolling, 

And  by  the  waterfall. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  261 

I  know  it  by  the  airs  that  blow, 
So  soft  upon  the  ruddy  glow 

Of  rosy  cheeks  and  fair, 
And  by  the  stillness  of  the  night, 
And  clouds  that  take  a  higher  flight, 
And  the  broad  arch  of  rosy  light, 

Behind  the  morning  star. 

Stern  winter  to  the  spring  has  bowed, 
I  know  it  by  the  fleecy  cloud 

That  hurries  to  the  pole; 
By  songs  amphibious  in  the  pool, 
By  truants  from  the  nurse  and  school, 
And  by  the  merry  April  fool, 

And  side-way  looks  and  droll. 

The  Spring  is  here  I  know,  for  he 
Has  climbed  the  peach  and  apple  tree, 

And  buds  begin  to  grow ; 
His  handy  work  attracts  our  eyes, 
And  birds  exchange  their  courtesies, 
As  they  return  from  other  skies, 

And  perch  from  bough  to  bough. 

I  see  him  bubbling  down  the  rill, 
A  month  ago  that  lay  as  still 

As  pebbles  on  the  shore  ; 
I  feel  him  creeping  in  my  clay, 
Dislodging  hypocondria, 
And  driving  all  the  plagues  away, 

Of  Job — and  many  more. 


262  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Oh !  yes,  the  Spring  is  here  indeed, 
And  very  soon  a  robe  will  spread 

Upon  the  naked  plain ; 
And  very  soon  shall  burst  a  song, 
Delicious  as  the  dreams  of  young 
Enthusiasm,  to  prolong 

His  bright  and  happy  reign. 


THE  ENCHANTED  GROUND. 

I  STAND  upon  enchanted  ground — 
When  I  survey  the  scene,  around 

My  own,  my  native  shore — 
"When  fragrance  breathes  on  Prospect  hill, 
And  silence  bids  the  air  be  still, 

The  matchless  landscape  o'er — 
Oft  on  that  hillock  I  have  stood, 
Musing  in  lonely  solitude. 

When  sunrise  o'er  the  ocean  throws, 
Upon  its  undisturbed  repose, 

The  glory  of  the  day— 
'Tis  then  a  happiness  to  rise, 
Ere  morning  has  unveiled  the  skies, 

To  see  the  rich  display, 
Of  nature's  fresco  overhead, 
And  ocean  bounding  bay  and  mead. 

But  oh !  'tis  mournful  to  behold, 
That  solemn  sea,  that  sky  of  gold, 

Of  so  divine  a  hue — 
And  to  reflect  how  soon  the  glow 


MISCELLANEOUS.  263 

Of  all  this  pageantry  and  show, 

Is  shut  from  human  view  ; 
Will  be  to  him  who  now  admires, 
But  funeral  pomp  and  funeral  fires. 

'Tis  sorrowful  to  contemplate, 

How  man  so  soon  must  meet  his  fate, 

Among  his  leaves  and  flowers — 
Must  leave  harmoneous  nature,  clad 
[n  all  her  pristine  beauty— sad, 

And  counting  out  his  hours, 
Lingering,  reluctant  to  depart, 
From  scenes  entwined  around  his  heart. 

"Why  was  the  sea,  and  earth,  and  air, 

Endowed  with  song  and  formed  so  fair,  1 

And  glorious  to  be  seen  1 
Why  were  the  heavens  inlaid  with  gems, 
Brighter  than  princes'  diadems, 

And  why  the  earth  so  green  1 
Since  man  must  see  them  but  to  die, 
And  leave  the  blest  reality. 

I'll  climb  the  violet  hills  again, 
Ere  human  life  begins  to  wane, 

And  ere  my  eyes  decay, 
To  gaze  upon  sweet  nature's  pride, 
As  lovers  gaze  upon  a  bride, 

Torn  from  their  grasp  away — 
A  look  of  anguish,  love  and  woe. 
Hopes  blasted,  Edens  overthrow. 


264  MISCELLANEOUS. 

THE   ISLE. 

THERE'S  an  isle,  far  off  in  the  ocean, 

A  gem  on  the  breast  of  the  sea — 
Oft  memory,  with  fondest  emotion, 

Recalls  in  its  brightness  to  me ; 
There  the  orange  trees  blooming  appear, 

And  the  cocoa-nut  drops  from  the  trees, 
And  the  paroquet  sings  all  the  year, 

A  song  to  the  halcyon  seas. 

By  its  river,  whose  border  discloses, 

All  the  beauties  of  nature  and  art, 
Love,  hid  in  an  ambush  of  roses, 

His  arrow  first  sent  to  my  heart ; 
The  pearls  on  the  side  of  that  river, 

Are  the  pearls  of  a  tropical  clime, 
And  the  blossoms  that  drop  in  its  quiver, 

Are  replaced  in  a  moment  of  time. 

The  scene  of  that  rose-scented  river, 

Is  laid  in  the  river  of  years — 
But  memory,  while  travelling  over 

It,  wades  through  a  valley  of  tears ; 
For  the  beauty  that  bathed  in  its  brightness, 

And  the  sweetness  that  sat  on  its  shore, 
And  the  step,  with  its  fairy-like  lightness, 

I  shall  see  by  its  waters  no  more. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE   SUMMER   OF   INFANCY. 

THOU  art  sporting,  sweet  summer,  o'er  valley  and  hill, 
As  musical,  merry,  and  frolicksome  still — 
Basking  in  fragrance,  and  breathing  perfume, 
As  when  first  we  met  in  my  childhood  of  bloom ; 
But  summer,  sweet  summer,  thy  gladness  to  me, 
Thrills  not  as  it  did  in  my  infancy. 

The  wreath  on  thy  brow  is  as  fresh  as  before, 
The  rose  on  thy  cheek  is  as  bright  as  of  yore, 
Thy  song  is  as  sweet — so  the  children  at  play, 
In  the  height  of  their  glee  and  their  gamboling,  say ; 
But  summer,  sweet  summer,  thy  beauty  to  me, 
Glows  not  as  it  did  in  my  infancy. 

Thy  voice  is  as  dulcet,  thy  tones  are  as  sweet, 
And  the  dew  is  as  deep  on  thy  balm  scented  feet — 
Thou  art  still  the  same,  as  I  every  day  hear, 
With  a  sigh  of  regret,  and  oft'times  with  a  tear ; 
Ah !  summer,  sweet  summer,  thy  music  to  me, 
Sounds  not  as  it  did  in  my  infancy. 

Thy  leaf  is  as  green,  and  thy  flower  is  as  fair, 
Thy  smile  as  bewitching,  as  gladsome  thine  air, 
As  when  our  acquaintance  in  Eden  began — 
The  Eden  of  childhood,  the  all  left  to  man ; 
But  summer,  sweet  summer,  thy  flower  unto  me, 
Blooms  not  as  it  did  in  my  infancy. 

Thy  robes  are  as  flowing,  thy  gems  are  as  clear, 
Thy  looks  as  endearing  and  pleasant  appear. 


266  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Thy  paths  are  as  scented,  and  peopled  with  joy, 
As  when  I  first  roved  an  enraptured  boy  ; 
But  summer,  sweet  summer,  thy  features  to  m  e, 
Charm  not  as  they  did  in  my  infancy. 

Thy  morn  is  as  ruddy,  thy  sun  is  as  bright, 
As  when  I  first  bathed  in  their  halo  of  light— 
The  stars  of  thy  heaven  as  resplendently  glow, 
As  lovely,  as  mild,  as  benignant — but  oh  ! 
Summer,  sweet  summer,  thy  glory  to  me, 
Shines  not  as  it  did  in  my  infancy. 


THE    OLD    FRIEND. 

OH  !  with  what  joy  I  met  my  friend, 

The  bosom  friend  of  former  years — 
His  wants  how  happy  to  attend — 

I  hardly  could  refrain  from  tears ; 
I  gazed  upon  his  wrinkled  faee, 

That  absence  gave  a  double  charm, 
I  met  his  hasty  close  embrace, 

And  still  I  found  his  heart  was  warm. 

1  listened  to  his  tale  of  cafe, 

And  gave  it  many  a  heartfelt  sigh — 
1  spread  before  him  all  my  fare. 

And  saw  his  swimming  grateful  eye  ; 
The  happy  scenes  together  planned, 

When  youthful  hopes  and  passions  burned, 
Again  o'er  all  the  past  were  scanned, 

And  friend,  long  lost,  again  returned 


MISCELLANEOUS.  267 

Misfortune  had  his  path  beset, 

And  want  had  entered  at  his  door — 
I  heard  it  all  without  regret, 

And  loved  him  better  than  before — 
For  I  could  give  him  friendly' aid, 

And  sympathise  in  all  his  woes ; 
His  every  want  a  pleasure  made, 

A  pleasure  friendship  only  knows. 

I  gazed  upon  his  wasted  form, 

And  took  his  withered  hand  in  mine — 
There  time  had  beat  his  fiercest  storm — 

I  saw  the  wreck  in  every  line  ; 
What  if  the  storm  had  known  no  calm, 

And  if  the  world  should  frown  the  while  1 
For  every  blow  I  had  a  balm, 

For  every  frown  I  gave  a  smile. 

Oh !  Welcome  was  the  friend  I  loved, 

The  honored  friend  of  former  days, 
Who  had  his  true  affection  proved, 

Through  all  life's  selfish,  crooked  ways — 
Through  praise  and  blame,  through  grief  and  pain, 

Through  fortune,  and  misfortune's  blast — 
How  sweet  to  welcome  him  again, 

How  proud  to  honor  him  at  last. 


FORMER   YEARS. 

How  beautiful  the  past  appears, 
Friend  of  my  youth  and  by-gone  years — 
How  sweet  the  memories  it  renews, 
And  gilds  with  its  transparent  hues  ; 


268  MISCELLANEOUS. 

What  happy  moments  we  retrace — 
As  fancy  roves  from  place  to  place, 
And  bids  us  drop  delicious  tears, 
Over  the  scenes  of  former  years. 

Come,  let  us  spend  a  fleeting  hour, 
To  court  the  fragrance  of  the  flower — 
Come,  since  our  lives  to  us  remain, 
Let's  try  to  deem  them  young  again  j 
The  sweet  deception  we'll  employ, 
To  have  once  more  a  thrill  of  joy, 
While  memory  smiling  through  her  tears, 
Points  to  the  sports  of  former  years. 

We'll  bid  a  truce  to  pain  and  care, 
And  breathe  the  young  untainted  air — 
We'll  seek  the  early  robin's  song, 
And  listen  to  it  all  day  long ; 
The  happy  hours  we'll  not  regret, 
Until  the  golden  sun  be  set — 
And  when  at  last  the  night  appears, 
We'll  sleep  and  dream  of  former  years. 

We'll  wind  the  field  and  thread  the  grove, 
And  talk  of  heaven  inspiring  love — 
That  love  that  glads  life's  blotted  scroll— 
The  brightest  jewel  of  the  soul ; 
We'll  give  that  sentiment  new  birth, 
That  seemed  an  angel  sent  to  earth — 
And  tell  our  hopes,  and  pains,  and  fears, 
Just  as  we  did  in  former  years. 

We'll  build  us  castles  in  the  air, 
All  loveliness  and  heavenly  fair, — 


MISCELLANEOUS. 

No  cruel  doubt  shall  e'er  betray, 
The  false  foundation  to  the  day; 
We'll  people  them  with  birds  that  sing, 
And  all  youth's  gay  imagining — 
Such  as  we  did  with  our  compeers, 
Companions  of  our  former  years. 

Oh  !  where  are  they  1  the  grave  can  tell, 
The  sea,  the  wide  world,  where  they  dwell- 
But  in  our  thoughts  they  still  remain, 
And  we  will  call  them  up  again ; 
Come,  spirits  of  the  joyous  past, 
Rise  from  the  heart's  deserted  waste, 
Pay  memory  all  thy  long  arrears, 
Play- fellows  of  our  former  years. 


THE   MIDSUMMER'S  DREAM. 

THE  harp  of  June  hangs  on  the  trees, 

The  vocal  grove  is  still, 
And  save  the  humming  of  the  bees, 

And  the  grass-hopper's  trill, 
No  music  wanders  o'er  the  vale, 

To  join  the  whistling  of  the  quail. 

The  swallow  twitters  round  his  shed, 

The  martin  is  at  rest, 
The  thrush  his  flow'ry  dell  has  fled, 

The  oriole  his  nest ; 
Silence  has  built  his  prison  round, 

And  chained  in  fetters  joyous  sound. 
23* 


270  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Oh  !  could  I  find  some  spreading  tree, 

Beside  some  river's  flow, 
To  seek  its  shade,  how  willingly 

My  hasty  steps  would  go — 
Some  murmur  from  its  waters  deep, 
Might  lull  my  weary  soul  to  sleep. 

How  sweet,  when  hidden  from  the  beam, 

That  melts  me  in  its  blaze, 
Would  be  that  calm  midsummer's  dream, 

Of  gladsome  youthful  days ; 
Bright  fancy's  forms  should  flit  around, 

That  green  enchanted  fairy  ground. 

And  while  the  sleeper  lay  entranced, 
Those  forms  might  take  the  hue 

Of  that  bright  throng,  who  sung  and  danced 
With  him  upon  the  dew — 

And  old  acquaintance  now  no  more, 
Would  make  him  happy  as  before. 

Then  he  would  murmur,  "they  are  here, 
Helen  and  George  have  come, 

And  Edward  too,  my  friend  so  dear, 
Oh  !  haste  and  give  him  room — " 

And  many  names  would  he  repeat, 
Whose  pulses  long  have  ceased  to  beat. 

Such  slumbers,  he  shall  wish  them  long, 

Whose-ever  they  may  be, 
That  bring  the  beautiful  and  young, 

Under  his  favorite  tree — 
The  forms  enshrined  within  his  heart, 

That  death  from  him  can  only  part. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  271 


THERE  is  no  misery  that  J  know, 
From  which  we  have  so  poor  defence, 

That  gives  the  heart  a  fiercer  blow, 
Than  racking,  raging,  wild  suspense  ; 

The  wretched  moments  move  so  slow, 
They  seem  to  mock  the  aching  sense. 

Hope  bids  us  battle  with  our  fears, 
And  expectation  chides  delay — 

Rumor  a  phantom  light  appears, 
With  doubts  alternate  and  dismay — 

Grief  ploughs  a  channel  for  the  tears, 
Suspense  forbids  us  weep  away. 

Fancy  with  sharp  and  searching  eyes, 
Attempts  to  aid  where  reason  fails, 

And  winged  improbabilities 
Float  round  upon  fictitious  gales — 

Truth  hides  away  in  deep  disguise, 
And  wild  uncertainty  prevails. 

"With  anguish  long  the  heart  contends, 
Against  emotions  strong  and  deep. 

Until  the  wounded  spirit  bends, 
And  human  nature  deigns  to  weep — 

And  now  the  fearful  struggle  ends, 
And  feeling  takes  a  death-like  sleep. 

That  calm,  that  sleep,  that  vacant  stare, 
The  pale  expression  on  the  brow, 


272  MISCELLANEOUS. 

They  are  the  sign  of  fell  despair ; 

I've  seen  it  oft,  I  feel  it  now — 
Poor  mortal,  lift  your  eyes  in  prayer, 

She's  gone  to  Heaven,  to  Heaven  bow. 

'Tis  better  far  to  know  the  worst, 

While  we  have  strength  of  mind  and  arm- 
To  meet  misfortune's  blast  at  first, 

While  we  have  power  to  breast  the  storm, 
Than  linger  out  a  life  accursed, 
With  fell  despair  in  demon  form. 


WHEN  first  my  heart  began  to  bleed, 

From  Cupid's  youthful  bow, 
I  thought  it  very  strange  indeed, 

The  stream  should  run  so  slow. 

No  melancholy  seized  my  breast, 

No  sorrow  I  could  name —  * 
My  happy  pulses  beat  at  rest, 

My  love  a  constant  flame. 

But  now,  when  time  hath  gathered  store, 

Of  feeling  and  of  pain, 
The  flood  that  ran  so  mild  before, 

Rushes  in  every  vein. 

The  waves  of  passion  o'er  me  roll, 

An  overwhelming  sea. 
And  fill  my  heart,  and  drown  my  soul. 

In  their  intensity. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  273 

Ambition,  reason,  prudence,  pride, 

Against  the  tempest  form, 
But  all  are  swept  before  the  tide, 

Of  the  resistless  storm. 

4 

The  elements  of  passion  rise, 

Hope,  jealousy,  and  fear — 
In  vain  my  struggling  spirit  tries, 

My  ship-wrecked  heart  to  steer 

1  see  the  land  in  Eden's  bloom, 

The  billows  round  it  roar — 
Oh  !  save  me  from  my  fatal  doom, 

Thou  angel  on  the  shore. 


JUNE,   1835. 

OH  !  yes,  again  as  it  appears, 
I'm  deep  in  love  up  to  the  ears  ', 
Fine  promises  all  broke  so  soon, 
And  deep  in  love  again  with  June. 

Ah !  she  is  beautiful  indeed — 
All  flowers,  without  a  thorn  or  weed ; 
All  smiles,  with  scarce  a  cloudy  brew — 
Come,  lovely  June,  accept  my  vow. 

I  vow  and  promise  while  my  days 
Are  lit  by  suns,  to  sing  thy  praise  ; 
While  stars  shall  twinkle  in  the  dow 
For  me— to  be  thy  lover  true. 


274  MISCELLANEOUS. 


I'll  lay  me  on  thy  glowing  breast, 
When  with  the  young  twin  daisies  drest, 
I'll  lay  me  at  thy  rosy  feet  — 
There  is  no  couch  for  me  so  sweet, 

My  J  une.  thy  tresses  are  the  trees, 
That  send  their  blossoms  on  the  breeze  — 
Love's  messengers  —  that  they  may  bear 
The  tidings,  thou  art  glorious  fair. 

Indeed,  I  love  thee  more  than  all 
Thy  sisters,  that  the  birds  recall  — 
So  beautiful,  and  young,  and  gay, 
You're  more  bewitching  far  than  May. 

Thy  toilet,  June,  is  ever  made, 
Beneath  the  forest's  leafy  shade, 
Thy  flowers  are  lovely,  rural,  wild, 
And  of  each  kind,  the  youngest  child. 

And  when  my  June  puts  on  her  dress, 
Let  me  attend,  admire,  caress  — 
Thy  lover,  poet,  any  thing, 
But  let  me  see,  adore,  and  sing. 

I  do  not  know,  my  June,  how  long, 
Thy  praise  shall  be  my  annual  song  — 
But  last,  I'd  gaze  upon  thy  face, 
And  then  expire  in  thy  embrace. 

And  then,  my  June,  'twill  be  thy  turn, 
To  wreath  thy  flowers  around  my  urn  ; 
Ah  !  can  my  ashes  then  refrain, 
To  see,  to  live,  and  love  again. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  275 

JUNE,  1836. 

My  lovely  June,  again  we  meet, 
And  I  as  fond,  and  thou  as  sweet ; 
Though  absent  many  a  lingering  day, 
My  love  for  thee  knows  no  decay, 
For  I  have  vowed  to  thee  before, 
Each  year  to  love  thee  more  and  more, 

My  June,  I  knew  thy  absence  meet, 
To  gather  flowers  around  thy  feet ; 
And  garlands  round  thy  brow  so  fair, 
All  for  the  new,  rejoicing  year — 
How  beautiful  thy  courtesy, 
My  queenly  June,  to  earth  and  me. 

I'll  keep  my  rustic  harp  in  tune, 
Whilst  thou  art  here,  my  merry  June  ; 
I'll  play  for  thee,  the  live-long  day, 
And  in  my  dreams  still  seem  to  play — 
I  know  no  bliss,  I'd  not  resign, 
Could  I  but  call  thee  ever  mine, 

Thy  robe  is  of  the  waving  green, 
With  sweetest  flowers  its  folds  between. 
Where  golden  cups  of  spangled  dew 
Each  morning's  freshness  doth  renew — 
Thy  glowing  beauties  never  fade, 
And  thou  art  gloriously  arrayed. 

The  rosy  cheek,  the  sparkling  eye, 
How  soon  they  fade,  how  toon  they  die, 


276  MISCELLANEOUS. 

These  sweet  illusions  soon  depart, 
And  leave  a  blank  upon  the  heart — 
My  June,  thy  leaf  is  never  sere, 
I  deem  thee  lovelier  every  year. 

I  come,  my  June,  to  seek  repose 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  thy  rose 
To  find — reclining  on  thy  breast — 
Lost  peace,  and  purity,  and  rest ; 
I  come  with  confidence,  e'en  now, 
Peace  sits  so  dove-like  on  thy  brow. 

The  hillocks  and  the  vales  rejoice, 
To  hear  the  music  of  thy  voice  ; 
The  fields  are  glad,  the  meadows  sing, 
To  hear  the  rustling  of  thy  wing  ; 
The  birds  to  see  thy  beauty's  blaze, 
Burst  forth  in  wild  spontaneous  praise. 

When  morn  appears,  in  rosy  light, 
And  draws  the  curtain  of  the  night, 
How  beautiful  thy  face  appears 
Pillowed  in  calmness  and  in  tears — 
Like  those  that  fill  a  maiden's  eye, 
Who  dreams  of  love's  first  ecstacy. 

Thy  breath  is  fragrance,  and  thy  tones 
Play  round  the  heart,  like  heavenly  one-: 
1  heard  thee  speaking  to  the  trees, 
In  the  soft  whispers  of  the  breeze, 
And  saw  thee  kiss  the  flow'rets  fair 
With  frazil!-  'U*.  f-r  T  was  there 


MISCELLANEOUS.  277 

And  I  was  jealous,  thus  to  see, 
Thy  charms  not  lavished  all  on  me — 
Ah  !  June,  it  gives  me  great  distress, 
Because  I  cannot  all  possess — 
I  love  thee  with  such  vast  desire, 
I  deem  thy  charms  could  never  tire  ! 

I  give  thee  thanks,  my  peerless  June, 
For  granting  me  the  precious  boon 
Of  one  more  visit  here  below, 
While  pleasure  smiles,  and  pulses  flow — 
My  yearly  tribute  thus  I  pay, 
Accept,  sweet  June,  my  humble  lay. 


JUNE,  1837. 

AND  hast  thou  come  again,  my  June  1 

So  lovely  and  so  opportune ; 

With  roses  on  thy  merry  cheek — 

Hast  come,  my  month  of  beauty,  speak  1 

In  all  the  trees,  in  all  the  flowers, 

In  frolic  winds,  and  fitful  showers. 

Speak  in  the  murmur  of  the  sea, 
That  leaps  and  bounds  exultingly, 
And  in  the  tangled  forest's  shade, 
Oh !  let  thy  melodies  be  played ; 
That  when  I  hear  thy  gentle  voice. 
My  heart  in  rapture  may  rejoice 
24 


278  MISCELLANEOUS. 

My  rosy  June,  I  fain  would  be 
Linked  to  thine  immortality, 
Of  green-side-hills,  and  gushing  fields, 
And  the  soft  airs  thy  presence  yields ; 
And  ever  by  thy  happy  side, 
Partake  thy  beauty  and  thy  pride. 

I'd  sit  by  thee  the  live-long  day, 
And  gaze  eternity  away  ; 
For  oh !  if  Heaven  be  made  for  me, 
It  must,  my  June,  resemble  thee. 
Sweet  maid,  of  loveliness  and  flowers, 
How  green  and  beautiful  thy  bowers. 

Thy  brow  is  wreathed  with  emeralds  bright, 
Enclosed  in  fields  of  green  and  light, 
And  on  thy  crest,  a  thousand  gems, 
Sparkle  like  heavenly  diadems  ; 
Thou  art  the  loveliest  child  of  song, 
And  all  thy  days  are  bright  and  long. 

I  come,  my  joy,  to  sup  witluthee — 
Oh !  let  me  breathe,  and  hear,  and  see — 
Spread  out  thy  banquet,  and  festoon 
Thy  glorious  curtains,  oh !  my  June — 
Put  on  thy  brightest  robq  and  ring. 
Thou  art  supreme  in  every  thing. 

Spread  out  thy  carpet,  for  I  fain 
Would  lie  upon  thy  breast  again, 
And  wind  thy  tresses  round  my  boat! 
TJpon  thy  flower-embroidered  bed— 
I  come,  my  June,  to  thy  embrace, 
I  come  !— I  come  !— prepare  thy  place 


MISCELLANEOUS.  279 

JUNE,    1841. 

MY  June,  my  lovely  month  of  flowers, 
With  thee  I've  passed  delighted  hours  ; 
With  thee  I've  sat  and  whiled  away 
Many  a  sweet  and  sunny  day. 
And  thou  art  here  again,  and  fair 
As  the  isles  of  summer  always  are. 

My  June,  I  come  to  offer  now, 

The  incense  of  my  yearly  vow  : 

My  vow  of  admiration  given 

On  thy  green  earth,  beneath  thy  heaven, 

I  come,  I  come,  my  pearly  June, 

My  harp  to  garland  and  attune. 

I  saw,  with  gladness,  lovely  May 
Hand  her  sweet  sister  to  the  day, 
Looking  like  some  young  joyous  bride, 
Her  cheeks  in  morning's  blushes  dyed  ; 
I  saw  her  wave  her  golden  wing, 
And  bid  a  last  adieu  to  Spring. 

I  threw  myself  before  her  feet, 
The  cherub  visitant  to  greet ; 
And  Summer's  drapery  that  she  wore, 
With  sacrilegious  hand  I  tore, 
And  her  yonng  roses  did  destroy, 
For  I  was  very  wild  with  joy. 

For  she  by  forest,  hill,  and  stream, 
Had  been  my  day  and  nightly  dream — 


280  MISCELLANEOUS. 

For  many  a  month  of  weary  time 
I'd  waited  for  her  morning  hymn  : 
Once  more  I  hail  thy  warm  caress, 
My  month  of  joy  and  loveliness. 


Thy  day  is  bright,  thy  night  is  calm, 
Thy  song  is  praise,  thy  breath  is  balm, 
Thy  dress  is  roses  dipped  in  dew, 
Wild  roses  and  wild  lillies  too ; 
And  thou  art  ever  fair  and  young, 
Sister  to  flowers,  and  child  of  song. 

How  many  scenes  dost  thou  recall, 
I  feel  thy  mantle  o'er  me  fall ; 
And  every  quick  pulsation  tells 
Of  fairy  forests,  fields,  and  dells— 
The  places  where  fond  mem'ry  strays, 
To  find  some  wreck  of  former  days. 

I  come,  I  haste  me  to  repose, 
Beside  thy  fair  young  blushing  rose, 
To  muse  upon  thy  flowery  reign, 
And  dream  my  raptures  o'er  again : 
Again  to  thee  my  harp  I  tune, 
Once  more  embrace  me  garland  June 


MISCELLANEOUS.  281 


THE    GROVES    OF    SUMMER. 

DEEP  aroid  the  groves  of  summer  I  often  hide  away, 
To  listen  to  the  murmur  of  the  winds  that  in  them  play, 
For  they  bring  a  sorrow  ever  to  my  bosom  fondly  dear, 
Of  the  blissful  days  that  never  shall  before  me  re-appear. 

Such  loveliness  hath  summer,  and  such  stillness  hath  its  scenes, 
That  with  Bryant,  Burns,  or  Homer,  seated  in  its  bowers  of  green, 
It  brings  a  soft  illusion,  when  the  waves  of  sorrow  roll, 
As  I  read  the  wild  effusion  of  the  poets  burning  soul. 

I  am  coming,  groves  of  summer,  to  view  thy  scenes  again, 
It  may  be  some  lovely  charmer,  thy  enchantment  may  retain 
Some  resemblance  of  the  flower  on  the  breast  of  bright-eyed  May, 
I  beheld  but  one  blest  hour,  then  was  torn  from  me  away. 

I  am  coming,  groves  of  summer,  in  thy  shade  to  lie  me  down, 
To  dream  of  all  the  former  bright  illusion  I  had  known  : 
'Neath  thy  green  and  flower-parted  canopies  to  slumber  o'er, 
Scenes  and  seasons  long  departed,  mem'ry  only  can  restore. 


THE   FOURTH   OF    JULY. 

COME  all  ye  noble  souls, 
Now  the  tide  of  freedom  rolls 
O'er  the  Irish,  French,  and  Poles, 
In  a  wave  of  victory. 
Let  us  kindle  up  the  fire, 
That  impelled  each  gallant  sire 
24* 


282  MISCELLANEOUS. 

To  defy  the  tyrant's  ire, 
On  the  fourth  of  July. 

Come  all  ye  gallant  hearts, 
Who  have  fled  from  foreign  parts, 
With  your  science  arms  and  arts 
Our  soil  to  beautify  ; 
Come  take  us  by  the  hand, 
And  together  let  us  baud, 
In  our  free  and  happy  land, 
On  this  fourth  of  July. 

We  have  sworn  to  be  the  foe, 
Of  oppression  here  below, 
And  to  cause  its  overthrow 
In  the  battle,  or  to  die ; 
Then  come  to  our  embrace, 
In  our  hearts  you'll  find  a  place, 
All  the  brave  of  human  race, 
On  the  fourth  of  July. 

We  have  sworn  to  pay  the  debt, 
That  we  owe  the  tyrant  set — 
And  my  boys,  we'll  do  it  yet, 
For  the  time  is  drawing  nigh  ; 
Then  let  us  second  France, 
With  our  eagles  in  advance, 
And  our  war-song  boldly  dance, 
On  this  fourth  of  July 

Awake  the  dram,  and  pour 
Out  the  cannon's  fearful  roar, 


MISCELALNEOUS.  283 

Till  it  reach  the  despot's  shore, 
With  our  mingled  battle  cry ; 
Till  the  subject  world  is  freed, 
We  have  volunteered  to  bleed, 
And  we'll  solemnize  the  deed, 
On  this  fourth  of  July. 

Come  all  ye  swelling  hearts, 
Who  have  fled  from  foreign  parts, 
With  your  science,  arms  and  arts, 
Our  soil  to  beautify — 
Let  us  with  the  sword  in  hand, 
While  we  here  together  stand, 
Swear  to  free  your  native  land, 
On  this  fourth  of  July. 


TO   A   BROTHER    SAILOR    ON    BOARD    THE   SHIP   CAROLINE. 

Lv  a  ship  upon  the  sea, 
There  is  one  will  think  of  me, 
When  he  hears  the  tempest  sigh, 
And  the  sea-bird's  warning  cry, 
When  his  vessel  is  in  motion, 
And  the  waters  of  the  ocean, 
Heave  with  anger,  rave  and  roar, 
He'll  remember  one  on  shore. 

When  the  gannet  skims  the  wave, 
And  the  sea-dogs  bark  and  rave, 
When  the  flying  fish  in  air, 
From  the  dolphin  leaps  in  fear  ; 


284  MISCELLANEOUS. 

When  the  petrel  flits  and  sings, 
Dancing  on  her  feet  and  wings, 
When  the  surges  curve  and  foatn, 
He  will  think  of  me  and  home. 

When  he  sees  the  coral  isle, 
When  he  feels  the  tropic's  smile, 
When  the  porpoise  under  water, 
Cross  his  vessels  bow  for  slaughter ; 
When  the  sailors  tell  and  sing 
Of  their  sweethearts — everything  ; 
Then  he'll  muse  of  one  behind, 
Often  present  in  his  mind. 

When  he  sees  the  Portugee, 
On  his  log  far  out  at  sea, 
Or  some  mountain's  top  discries, 
Burning  in  the  smoky  skies  ; 
When  the  ocean  trembles  under, 
And  the  Heavens  over— thunder  ! 
Then  a  thought  will  cross  his  breast, 
Of  his  home,  in  peace  and  rest, 

When  the  trade  winds  waft  him  through 
Isles,  and  seas,  he  never  knew  ; 
When  the  equinox  is  past, 
And  the  sails  hang  to  the  mast, 
When  the  polar  clouds  appear, 
In  a  sky  as  cold  as  clear — 
When  the  northern  star  shall  set, 
He  shall  see,  but  with  regret. 

When  the  orange  blossoms  blow, 
From  the  vales  of  Mexico, 


MISCELLANEOUS.  285 

On  her  gales  of  scented  air, — 
And  the  sea  is  smooth  and  fair, 
When  the  mighty  whale  is  nigh, 
Spouting  ocean  to  the  sky, 
And  the  boats  are  bid  to  lower, 
He  will  wish  himself  on  shore. 

When  the  green  Pacific  isles, 
Robed  in  Nature's  sweetest  smiles, 
Bursting  on  his  ravished  view, 
Dreams  of  Paradise  renew ; 
He  will  wish  to  linger  long, 
Round  those  sweet  abodes  of  song, 
'Till  the  thought  of  Liberty, 
Call  his  mind  to  home  and  me. 

When  his  loaded  ship,  her  sail 
Spreads  unto  the  homeward  gale, 
And  the  happy  tars  rejoice, 
They  will  often  hear  his  voice, 
Telling  how  before  he  sailed, 
I  had  learnt  him  how  they  whaled  ; 
And  those  tars,  with  song  and  glee. 
Sure  will  laugh  at  him  and  me. 


WHEN  love  attacks  the  human  breast, 
It  gives  the  heart  nor  peace  nor  rest, 
Its  pain  and  pleasure  lie  concealed, 
A  passion  deep  and  unrevealed. 


286  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Its  object,  wheresoever  found, 
Ten  thousand  graces  float  around, 
And  charms  about  her  form  arise, 
17nseen,  unknown,  to  other  eyes. 

Love  paints  her  cheeks,  and  curls  her  hair. 
And  waves  it  round  her  shoulders  fair, 
And  round  her  person  breathes  perfume. 
Sweeter  than  roses  first  in  bloom. 

Her  voice  is  music's  softest  sound, 
She  stands  upon  enchanted  ground, 
And  every  garment  that  she  wears, 
The  enchantment  of  her  beauty  shares. 

To  gaze  upon  her  is  a  bliss, 
Too  great  for  such  a  world  as  this. 
Her  form  presents  a  perfect  whole, 
Enchains  and  fascinates,  the  soul. 

She  speaks— 'tis  rapture  to  obey, 
No  potentate  has  half  her  sway, 
She  wants — her  happy  slave  replies, 
By  daring  earth,  and  seas,  and  skies. 

Her  smiles  are  hoarded  in  the  heart, 
As  misers  hoard  a  golden  chart, 
Which  gives  them  access  to  a  mine 
Of  wealth,  they  worship  as  divine  ; 

Yea,  every  smile  is  valued  more 

Than  California's  mount  of  ore, 

And  every  sweet  expression  given, 

Than  angel  gems  sent  down  from  Heaven. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  287 

WHAT    BOOTS   IT. 

WHAT  boots  it  where  a  man  is  born, 

Upon  this  common  world  of  ours  ; 
If  he  in  wilds  or  mountains  roam, 

Or  bask  among  the  sweetest  flowers. 
How,  if  another  faith  be  his, 

Dare  we  his  virtue  to  arraign, 
By  which  he  hopes  a  Heaven  of  bliss, 

After  his  toil  is  o'er  to  gain. 

He  is  a  brother,  be  his  birth 

On  Afric's  sands  or  Iceland  snows  ; 
He  for  a  parent  claims  the  earth, 

For  him,  as  us,  its  bounty  flows  ; 
For  him  the  groves  of  citron  bloom, 

For  him  the  forest  sweetly  sings, 
And  to  dispel  the  sultry  gloom, 

Its  shade  o'er  sultry  deserts  flings, 

For  him  the  camel  bears  his  load, 

Through  arid  sand,  and  pathless  plains, 
Instinct  the  magnet  on  his  road  ; 

To  guide  his  feet  and  hold  the  reins  ; 
For  him  the  bear  his  aegis  throws 

Over  his  unprotected  form, 
To  guard  him  from  the  Shetland  snows. 

The  Greenland  frost,  and  Russian  storm. 

For  him  the  sea  in  every  clime, 
A  banquet  to  his  table  sends ; 


288  MISCELLANEOUS. 

For  him  the  cocoanut  and  lime, 
Prepare  a  dessert  for  his  friends  ; 

Like  a  kind  parent  for  its  child, 
Nature  for  all  his  wants  provides, 

If  he  be  civilized  or  wild, 
Protects,  feeds,  cherishes,  and  guides. 

If  Heaven  be  thus  impartial,  why 

Should  man  be  hostile  to  his  kind, 
At  war  with  his  own  family, 

Hateful,  intolerant,  and  blind  1 
The  lesson  taught  us  by  the  Lord 

Of  heaven  and  earth,  should  be  obeyed, 
It  is  to  bless,  in  deed  and  word, 

The  creatures  which  his  hand  has  made. 


THE  GALLANT  MEN. — A  SONG. 

OH  !  they  were  gallant  men, 

And  the  flower  of  chivalry, 
Who  fought  in  olden  time 

For  the  price  of  liberty  ; 
They  pillowed  on  the  clods, 

When  the  earth  was  hard  and  cold, 
Their  country's  cause  was  God's, 

And  their  hearts  were  strong  and  bold. 

They  marched  with  gory  fe<>f. 

Their  proud  enemy  to  find, 
'["he  fierce  Briton's  sword  to  meet, 

And  they  left  their  prints  behind  : 


MISCELLANEOUS.  289 

And  what  though  amid  the  strife, 

The  wounded  soldier  fell, 
He  rose  again,  his  life 

For  his  country  dear  to  sell. 


By  each  other  they  would  fight, 

By  each  other  bravely  fall, 
.  And  the  gloomy  winds  of  night, 

Wailed  the  soldier's  funeral  ;— 
A  boon  so  nobly  won, 

Oh !  how  prized  it  ought  to  be, 
By  every  patriot  son 

Of  those  sires,  that  would  be  free. 


ON   THE  DEATH  OF   MR.   JOHN  RODGERS,  OF  OYSTERPOND. 

AND  must  we  seek  among  the  dead, 
Who  silent  lie  thy  lowly  bed, 
And  must  that  cheek  so  soon  supply, 
The  worms  retreat  and  revelry — 
And  late  that  eye  that  looked  so  fair 
And  bright,  say,  must  it  moulder  there  *. 

Oh  !  if  thy  spirit,  conscious  even 
Of  mortal  tie,  be  now  in  Heaveu, 
Or  if  to  earth  it  still  repair, 
A  happy  tenant  of  the  air — 
Accept  the  tear  of  friendship  due, 
To  worth  so  dear,  to  friend  so  true. 


290  MISCELLANEOUS. 

The  joyful  spring  will  early  spread, 
Her  beauteous  mantle  o'er  thy  head— 
The  bird  will  sing,  the  flow'ret  blow, 
Nor  leave  around  thee  trace  of  woe, 
But  all  alike  the  wintry  storm, 
Or  smiling  nature's  glowing  form. 


Thy  hand  shall  ne'er  remove  the  screen, 
To  view  thy  canopy  of  green- 
To  thee  no  sweet  return  of  spring, 
Shall  odors  waft  or  beauty  bring, 
For  thee  no  bird  shall  mount  the  sky, 
All  lost  its  song  and  revelry. 

But  though  no  sound  thy  slumbers  aid, 
Nor  orison  or  serenade, 
And  though  the  earth  thy  bosom  press, 
And  cold  thy  form  and  motionless, 
No  murmur  shall,  nor  e'en  a  sigh, 
Disturb  that  sweet  tranquility. 

Age  after  age  shall  pass  away, 
Exult  in  glory,  then  decay — 
All  grasp  their  cup  of  fancied  joy, 
Then  dash  away  the  illusive  toy, 
With  me,  to  sorrow  o'er  the  fate 
Of  parent,  child,  or  friend,  or  mate. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  291 


TO    THE    MEMORY  OF  HELEN  FRANCIS,  SISTER  OF  THE 
AUTHOR. 

AGAIN  I  hear  the  solemn  sound, 
Of  Autumn  moaning  on  the  breeze — 

Again  behold  the  wreck  around, 
Of  fallen  verdure  from  the  trees. 

And  mystic  murmurs  on  the  air, 

Like  spirits  speaking  in  the  wind, 
Again  they  bid  my  soul  prepare, 

To  leave  this  wretched  world  behind. 

Nature  is  mourning  for  the  smiles 
Of  summer,  that  have  early  fled — 

Is  weeping  o'er  the  youthful  spoils, 
Decaying,  dying,  on  her  bed. 

'Tis  well,  I'll  listen  to  her  lays- 
It  is  my  requiem  that  she  sings — 

Gone  is  the  summer  of  my  days, 
Gone  the  sweet  charmer  of  my  string?. 

When  first  we  sung,  all  nature  wore 

A  radiant  beauty  to  our  eyes — 
No  clouds  or  shadows  hung  before, 

The  glory  of  our  paradise. 

Weep  on,  sweet  nature,  weep  with  me, 
And  as  thy  pensive  numbers  move, 

It  is  not  meet  that  only  thee, 
Should  mourn  departed  joys  and  love. 


292  MISCELLANEOUS. 

The  one  I  loved  the  dearest,  best, 

Her  lovely  eye  and  cheek  grew  pale — 
Sweet  are  her  slumbers  and  her  rest, 
-  Beneath  the  rose  of  yonder  vale. 

Nature,  hast  thou  prepared  a  place, 
For  me  to  rest  my  head  upon, 

To  moulder  and  dissolve  apace, 
When  my  career  of  life  is  run  1 

Oh !  tell  me  where  I  am  to  lay 
This  broken,  bleeding  heart  of  mine — 

Upon  its  mother's  breast  of  clay, 
The  burthen  gladly  I'll  resign. 

And  then  this  humble  boon  I  crave, 
In  death  forever  let  me  dwell, 

By  my  sweet  sister's  hallowed  grave — 
Then  farewell  nature,  fare-thee-well. 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last 
date  stamped  btlow 

SEP  5 

9 


2m-6,'52(A1855)470 


UCLA- Young  Research   Library 

PS3009.T53  A17  1850 
V 


L  009  607  161    8 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    001  220  963    1 


